


Points of Entry

by spicy (suanla)



Series: door to a door to a door [1]
Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), Original Work
Genre: Begging, Biting, Choking, Consensual Sex, Cunnilingus, Double Penetration, F/F, Humiliation, Lesbian Sex, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Rough Sex, Strap-Ons, Threesome - F/F/F, Vampires, lenore's in ch3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:01:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24037063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suanla/pseuds/spicy
Summary: Swallowing the lump in your throat, you slip your right hand fully off her knee and under the hem of her dress. When you look up, for permission, she just huffs impatiently and grips harder at the back of your neck. It is as close to encouraging as you will probably ever get from her.“Thank you,” you find yourself murmuring which is just... stupid. You know she can hear you, but she either doesn’t care enough to make fun of you or she actually thinks this is something she should be thanked for and has taken it in stride. Either option seems plausible.
Relationships: Carmilla (Castlevania)/Lenore (Castlevania)/Original Female Character, Carmilla (Castlevania)/Original Female Character, Carmilla (Castlevania)/Reader
Series: door to a door to a door [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1914898
Comments: 12
Kudos: 165





	1. From One Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is SO niche but hi, basically carmilla fucks u 6 ways to sunday, thats all that happens
> 
> you could read this as a reader fic i guess, i did intentionally make bodily descriptions kind of vague, though i cant avoid genitals when im writing someone getting their brains fucked out, so u hv a coochie lol. also i only vibe w consent tho i will admit there r some issues here bc carmilla rly is the worlds most inconsiderate person but look, OFC is presented w choices and they take the one where they get railed 
> 
> it's difficult to make medieval underwear sexy but castlevania didnt hv a problem giving lenore panties so i wont let that stand in the way! ch2&3 will feature 21st century dildos bc i can
> 
> im flirting w the og work tag bc the castlevania plot means next to nothing to this fic n i considered changing the names n tweaking some stuff but im staying true to what inspired me. im going to be honest, i dont think carmilla or lenore deserve any rights but i think mean vampire ladies are hot and so it is what it is. ok ill shut up now

* * *

**Part 1**

* * *

It's been several long days when you finally emerge from the cave, dragging yourself through the slush of melting snow at its mouth. There’s a lake down the slope, and you clean yourself up there, muffling your wince at the biting cold. 

A few days ago, from the top of a hill, you’d spotted a small village nearby. You’d set out for it but had to duck away in the cave when a storm had hit. Thankfully, you know how to start fires, and you had enough food from careful rationing. 

You’re completely out now, so you’re glad the village is a walkable distance away. 

You have no particular end destination; at first, all you’d set out to do was to go far, _far_ away from home. Now, years after you'd left, you're tired of being directionless and just want to find someplace to settle down. No matter where you go, however, you always feel lost and restless. Like you don't belong. You haven’t stayed long in any single town and you don’t intend to now. Still, it would be nice to at least have a roof over your head. 

The land upon which the town is erected is frigid and barren, and only a few people mill about. Maybe it will fill in when the warmer seasons come—at the sight of you, an elderly woman pulls her face taut with terror and slams her door shut.

Taken aback, you’re about to approach the door and ask for an explanation when a hand grips your bicep and hoists you away.

So, this is probably what scared the woman away: when you look up, you see sleek white armour and... fangs. A lot of it. You hale from farther east, but the vampire presence and the slaughter of the humans in this region had not passed you by.

“What do you want?” you stammer out. The vampire doesn’t answer, just drags you down the road in a way that will leave his fingerprints purpling in your skin for at least days to come.

Above you stands a tall mountain, like it has been sharpened roughly with a knife to an uneven point but to a point nonetheless. It is jagged, even (especially) with the castle imposing its ominous shadows over the stark whiteness of the snow. Your apparent destination.

This is how you die then, hungry and lost.

“I—” you start, thinking to bargain for your life, only for him to push you hard enough to topple you onto a knee before you use the momentum to scramble back up and avoid soaking your clothes through in the snow.

“ _I_ tire of this. Walk before I get hungry for a midday snack.”

He must be cranky, being awake so close to noon. You weigh your options, but even in the vampire-free nation that is your country of origin, you know not to underestimate them, even in the sun. So, you walk. It must be hours before you arrive at the tall, arching doors of the castle. You feel like collapsing. You don’t get the chance to.

The vampire wrenches you through a side door, towards a descending staircase. It’s warm in here, and you feel your muscles loosen, taking some solace in the heat despite your best instincts.

Once again, you try to reason: “Please, I don’t know what this is. I— I don’t have anything to offer to the court of these lands. I’ll leave here quietly, I promise.”

Once again, he pushes you, and you have to cling onto the railing to stop yourself from cracking open like an egg on the steps. You swivel around to glare at him, but he has you by your throat, and he leers down at you. “I can promise you that you _do_ have something the, ah, court will take and, by tomorrow morning, you will be blessedly quiet.”

You squint. A court of vampires, then. In a wretched ice cube of a nation. So, this is Styria. At least you are not lost. You will only die hungry.

He hurls you down the last few steps, stepping over your prone, gasping body to jangle some keys to— to a cell. When it’s open, he kicks at your side until you crawl in and shuts it behind you with a clang. After a beat, he stoops to pick up your rucksack and slings it over his shoulder.

“Fuck,” you gasp out, pushing your back to the rough wall and holding onto your aching middle.

“It’s a shit hole, I know. Don’t worry, it’ll be a brief stay,” the vampire says like he’s in on a joke that you’ve not been privy to. Eying his teeth, you have a rough idea of what the joke is.

“Fuck you.”

Laughing, he leaves you behind.

It’s only a few hours till the early winter sunset. In that time, you peel away your raggedy coat, and you untuck your shirt from your pants. Your midsection is bruised to all hell. You’d ice it, but now you somehow want for anything cold. The irony is not lost on you.

All you can do now is settle in against the stone and say your last goodbyes to the spirits of your ancestors, supposedly watching over you.

—when you wake, it is to the clacking of heels.

From the stairs, through the bars, you see a single slender leg come into view, then another, then the bottom of a black dress. Then: a woman you recognize immediately as ethereal, as royalty, as _above you_ , that you tense up and inch farther into your corner. She is entirely unapproachable.

She carries herself in such a way that indicates she, too, knows she is above you, and the vampire guard, and this whole place. There’s a confidence here that tells you this is a cunning, cutting woman; only someone who knows completely that they have the upper hand can stroll through life the way she seems to.

And you grit your teeth to stop yourself from spitting something petty and spiteful at her, knowing that it won’t do you any good.

She speaks to the guard in low tones before scoffing and turning away mid-sentence, effectively cutting him off and dismissing him.

This means she’s left looking into your cell, into your eyes. There is something about her gaze that leaves you pinned down and helpless. You can’t will yourself to stare at anything other than her. Like she’s the predator to your prey, and you can do nothing but bend to _her_ will.

She approaches the bars and stares at you, sizes you up.

Like her home, like the mountain it perches upon, she is sharp and angular. There is a weight to her, a sense that she is the only tangible thing in the room, the single real shape in a crisscrossing mess of lines. You would want to reach out and touch her if you weren’t so terrified your hand would drop off your body before you managed to get within spitting distance.

“Well,” she finally says, voice smooth as silk, smug as a cat eyeing an injured canary. You watch the sudden twist of her red lips into a shark-like grin, watch the appearance of a tongue coming out to wet her bottom lip.

You open your mouth, brain working overtime to figure something intelligible to say. You come up with a sad, little, “Please.”

This amuses her if her widening smile is any indication. “Hm, this will do.”

It’s only when the guard comes up to unlock the door that you realize she wasn’t even talking to you. You can’t help the thundering of your heart for a reason other than fear for your life. Powerful women have always been a particular weakness of yours. (Women in general, really, which is why you’re so far from home in the first place.)

“Bring it along,” she says without even so much as gesturing at you. 

The guard picks you up by the arm, preventing you from flipping her the bird, and you snort at the familiarity of it.

At the sound of your laugh, he freezes so suddenly you have to jerk back to stop yourself from colliding into the woman. You look up to see the woman has stopped too, slanted her body so that you can see the harsh cut of her profile. She meets your eyes, expressionless.

“Um,” you say because you seem to lose 99% of your vocabulary whenever you make eye contact with her.

It doesn’t help that she looks like she could devour you in more ways than one from this angle. You feel your face grow a little hot and hope it doesn’t show in the orange-y lighting of the dungeons.

She raises a single eyebrow and tilts her head, considering you. You are struck with the sense that praying or hoping for things are meaningless endeavours in this country.

Finally, she moves on, back to you. There’s a pang of sadness, which you ignore, at the fact that she has on a white shawl, covering her back. You wonder if she has smooth skin, if she is taut with muscles. Vampires are supposed to be incredibly strong— _No_. You’re a lamb being walked to slaughter, and she’s the slaughterhouse. No lusting for the slaughterhouse, you scold yourself.

They lead you up winding staircases and down sprawling hallways. At one point, the decor becomes notably shinier. This sort of decadence is something you’ve only come close to in your more fantastical dreams.

The end of the hall is marked by a set of doors grander than the rest— and you are yanked sideways, through a marginally less decorated doorway. Inside, is a fireplace alight to an audience of one long settee and three matching chairs. On one side of the room is a long, curving thing of glass, laying Styria before your feet and sheltering over you the twinkling sky.

The floor is stone so smooth you’re scared for a second that you might slip, but that’s only because you’re frazzled by this whole situation. You come to your senses when the guard lets go. You catch yourself before you drop like a sack of potatoes, overcome by fatigue.

The woman hums a sound as the door swing shuts, and heads over to a chair so she can drape her shawl over the back. The seating is made up of a cold white frame with red cushioning, and you are very aware of how easily your blood could be cleaned off the furniture.

Before you can think too hard, a cool hand presses into the space of skin where your shoulder meets your neck. She had moved in the blink of an eye.

You don’t even get to shriek or jump away in shock because she leans into you, physically trapping you and killing any sounds that come up by the sheer force of her presence.

“What have we here?” she murmurs. Her breath fans down your neck, coming out room temperature, unlike the air from the lungs of any ordinary warm-blooded creature. You marvel at the fact that she need only inhale to speak and not for much else. Unexpectedly, her hand flexes and her nails dig into your skin.

You inhale sharply.

“Awfully bold of you, pet, not to answer to royalty in a nation you were not even welcome to,” she says into your ear, a startling genuineness in her anger.

Shakily, you gasp out an apology with a dying whimper that is supposed to sound like your name. As soon as you say it, you know she has relegated that information to the part of her brain she leaves for forgettable details. After all, why should a goddess care for an ant?

Her hair brushes against your shoulder, and you can imagine it cascading over your skin. You don’t dare to look.

A rush of cold air. She pulls away and fills in your vision just as you register her absence.

You try not to wilt, for the first time standing face-to-face with her. Even when you pull yourself to your full height, she towers over you. Her heels don’t help.

Nervously, you stammer out where you’re from and why you’re here, and how you didn’t even know this was Styria until you were licking your wounds in a cage downstairs. And she pulls the same shit she did with the guard, striding away from you mid-sentence, entirely uncaring. You putter out, eyes tracking her every movement. You have a feeling this will become a habit when she is in the room.

She sits down on a chair, back to you, and her arm sways over the armrest in a lazy gesture. “Come before I have to drag you here myself.”

Your legs are weak from trekking up a whole mountain and the beating you took, but you’ll be hard-pressed not to do everything this lady tells you to do. Vampires aren’t exactly known to be merciful; you’ve been told they take offence easily and exact disproportionate revenge for such things. She may be unfortunately and absurdly attractive to you, but you’d rather not be literally ripped to pieces because you looked at her the wrong way.

She’s gazing out the window when you appear in her peripheries, and she moves her hand, indicating that you should keep walking (tottering, really) to stand in front of her. You do so and wring out your hands, shifting unsteadily on your feet. 

She narrows her eyes at you. “Kneel.”

You kneel with a grunt. Your knees are bruised.

She smiles, laughs a little, and uncrosses her legs to lean the points of her elbows on her knees. “So obedient.”

You can’t help it. The heat gathering in places other than your cheeks, at those words. It really is outside of your control.

She closes her eyes and inhales deeply. “My mother once told me not to play with my food. But then again, she’s long dead, and I’m not so I don’t see why I should listen to her.” Her eyes open, piercing. “Should I?”

“I...” you choke out. “No?”

“No, what?”

You gape a little—you realize she’s toying with you—but you shouldn’t be keeping her waiting. “I mean, don’t listen to her.” In your frenzy to get anything intelligent out of your mouth, you blurt, “I don’t want to die.”

The woman drops the little lilt at her lips. A blank slate—

Her hand darts forward to seize you by your shirt and yanks you closer. Your knees come off the floor, held up by her one hand. You yelp in pain and alarm as your face comes dangerously close to her teeth. It’s as easy as leaning forward a little and biting to take a chunk out of you, if she so pleased.

She doesn’t do this, only snarls: “Who are you to tell me what to do?”

This time, you know it’s rhetorical, so you just focus on breathing.

“Little human, coming onto my land. Your arrogance is the only thing that truly astounds me about your species, little else is noteworthy.” She lets go, then, and you crumple onto your knees. “Fear suits you better.”

You press your palms into the cold stone. It crosses your mind that the stone is probably not very cold since the whole castle permeates an uncharacteristic warmth and that it is _you_ that is heating up, thinking the stone cold in comparison. Your heart is pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears. Don’t get it wrong—impending doom does not do it for you. It’s as she said: you’re in fear. Still, there is a part of you that keeps acknowledging the fact that you are on your knees, at the feet of a beautiful woman. It is harder to drown this thought out when she reaches a single long finger out to tip up your chin. Her touch makes you, again, hold your breath.

It seems that, just as quickly as it had come, her anger had gone. She was playing with you the whole time. Playing with her food. You tense your jaw to keep it shut.

“Oh, don’t hold back. I see through your kind as easily as glass.” You keep your mouth closed, mostly to stop yourself from telling her to go fuck herself, and her smile widens. “Well, now, looks like we have a fast learner.”

You just stare and wait to calm down. Slowly, your fists unclench.

After a moment, pleased, she pulls away and relaxes into her chair like she was born to be there. 

You figure now is a safe time to speak. “What do you want from me?” you ask, pleadingly, trying not to sound as furious as you are. As you _should_ be.

The woman taps a nail to the side of her face. “I haven’t decided. Ordinarily, we have foreigners thrown into the pens. Those with... purer blood, well, we like them fresh, share them around a fire on a lovely night like this.”

‘ _We_.’ You know that Styria is ruled with an iron fist by four sisters. Their names escape you, and you curse yourself for that. In hindsight, you should have been more wary approaching the village. You knew you were approaching vampire-infested regions. No amount of berating yourself for your lack of foresight will fix that, so you focus on what she’s said. 

“Pure?”

The woman sighs. “Virgin blood is harder to come by than you’d think in these apparently religious regions. Or maybe we should expect it; humans are hardly ever honest.”

For the third time this night, you are blushing. It’s a possibility that you haven’t actually stopped blushing once. “I’m—”

“I could not care less,” she says, sharply.

Your eye twitches. You must look crazed, and you feel that way, too. Rapidly, you feel your resolve slip. In your lifetime thus far, you have been thrown out, beaten, and abandoned more times than you can count. Any other person in your situation might just accept death, but the thing is, you know there are things to live for. You don’t want to die. Life has dealt you a bad hand, but you’ve never been a sore loser; you like the game for the game.

There has yet to be a game that has drawn you in quite like this woman, no matter how aggravating she is. What is it about powerful women, anyway?

You beg. You don’t demand anything, careful to ask only. “What can I do? Please, can you just _please_ tell me? What can I do to—to make this better? Please, just let me go?”

“I do have an idea,” she says, and you are unmoving, chest tightening. You want to live, yes, but at what cost.

You swallow the lump in your throat, head spinning at all the twists and turns this conversation has taken. “What is it? I’ll do it.”

Snorting at your grim tone, she looks down her nose and extends a calf. The point of her shoe digs into your chest. “Nothing you don’t want to do. I can smell it. You’ve practically been dripping since you got on your knees for me so keenly.”

“ _What_ —I’m—I don’t—Please, I—”

She lifts a hand fast and hard enough for there to be a whoosh of air. She holds it there. She wants you to be silent, so you are. Your mouth closes with an audible clack. You shall beg when she puts it back down and allows you to speak again. Meanwhile, you think you might die of mortification. So much for wanting to live.

She drags the toe of her shoe up, flattens her foot to point her heel into your shoulder, and you sway with the force. If you made her angry now, she could kick hard enough to embed the shoe into your body. You keep quiet as she deliberates. When she puts you out of your misery, she does it with a hard pressure to your shoulder with her heel.

“You will survive the night. I will feed, somehow and at some point. The circumstance is up to you, but you will survive.” You exhale in relief, missing the way her eyes light with something dark and mischievous. She puts her hand down and slips her foot off the slope of your shoulder. “And I’m in an obliging mood.”

Before you can ask her to elaborate, she grabs you by the throat and hauls you close enough to slip between her knees. You gasp for air, hands coming up to your neck. You don’t pull at her hand, just grip on for dear life. It would be pointless to fight her. Her other hand lifts up and traces a sharp nail down your cheek.

Air comes in, your lungs expanding with the sweet relief. Mostly, it hurts under your jaw where she’s holding you up off the ground, keeping you at eye-level.

“You’ll beg for me, I’ve decided.” 

Your eyes zero in on her tongue, prodding at a sharp canine as she thinks. She nods to herself, blatantly uncaring of your own thoughts or opinions. You burn at that in a delightful and humiliating way. 

She smiles, wickedly. “Yes, you’ll only be using your mouth for this.”

Even if she didn’t have you by the neck, you probably wouldn’t be breathing properly right now, aroused as you are. Foreplay, starting from the moment she realised you wanted her. Desire floods your system, and you know you’ll do exactly as she says.

And she releases you and— “Please,” you say instantly, in your first ragged inhale, more of a rush of air than any recognizable word.

Your hands reach out for her knees, her own withdrawn to the armrests, and you press into the smoothness of her skin.

Now that you’ve started, you can’t stop. “Please, please, please, please, please.”

A hand tugs at your hair, harshly redirecting your gaze from her crotch to her face. Your words die in your throat, jaw working slackly at her wholly unimpressed look.

“Please _what_?” Her lips curl in disgust, mocking. “That’s pathetic. You’re pathetic. Do better.”

Betraying yourself, you only get wetter. 

Only now, do you notice the way her nostrils flare, the way the points of her lips tug higher into a smirk, the way she sits a little taller. “Really?” 

At the cold realization that she can _smell_ your desire, it gets worse. You’ve probably soaked through your underwear.

She slips a foot into your lap and presses the hard top of it against your core. Delights in the way you immediately bear down and then twitch back in embarrassment, after you’ve controlled yourself.

“I—” Her grip tightens, foot falling away. Your hands press harder into her skin, hands pushing a little farther up her leg. “I’ll do better. Please, I’ll do better.”

She gives you an expectant look. “Get on with it, then.”

Your eyes flicker away from her pale eyes, down to the pale, pale, pale of her thighs. “Let me taste you. Please, I want to— Please, let me taste you.”

Nails scrape at your scalp, and she catches your eye. The sincerity hovering just under the cruelty startles you. “Is that what you want?”

“You. I want you,” you gasp out. It’s true.

She has this magnetism that comes with her authority; the draw that powerful people have over those below them, that has them, _you_ , craving for approval. There is so much about life, about her, that you don’t know yet, and you want to find out.

Logically, you know vampires have much the same anatomy as humans, given that humans are what they come from. However, you wonder if she feels things more with those heightened senses. You wonder if she’ll taste different. (Though, you don’t have a frame of reference other than the awkward time you tried yourself on your own fingers.) You _want to find out_.

So, you suck in a shaky breath and start again: “I want you. I want to feel you and taste you and—and—please, just let me. You’re so...” Your hands slip a little higher, and you gaze up at her almost reverently. “You’re so beautiful. I’ll make you feel good, I promise. I promise, I promise.” 

You have been trying so hard not to come off as the blushing virgin that you are and you think that, in your haste, you have ended up sounding like you’re foaming at the mouth instead. 

Her hands tighten in your hair. You take in another breath, sighing out, “Please, let me have you.”

With a cruel bark of laughter, the woman jerks your head back and lets go but widens her legs anyway. “Keep dreaming, pet. _I’ll_ have _you_.”

She shakes your fingers off her right leg to sling her calf over your shoulder. Her high heel knocks lightly at your spine as she gets comfortable. It’s a go-ahead if you’ve ever seen one. You loop your arm under the leg on your shoulder and tentatively place your hand on her hip. The fabric of her dress is smooth under the calloused skin on your hand.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you slip your right hand fully off her knee and under the hem of her dress. When you look up, for permission, she just huffs impatiently and grips harder at the back of your neck. It is as close to encouraging as you will probably ever get from her.

“Thank you,” you find yourself murmuring which is just... stupid. You know she can hear you, but she either doesn’t care enough to make fun of you or she actually thinks this is something she should be thanked for and has taken it in stride. Either option seems plausible.

Hastily, you gather the dress in your hands and hike it up her legs. You just barely stop yourself from thanking her again when she arches off her ass and slips a little lower on the chair, to help you along. 

You keep glancing up to check with her. The whole time, she looks vaguely bored. Overcome, then, by a burning desire to cause even a small ripple on the smooth surface that she is, you dip your head down and get a taste of her skin. 

At first, it’s just the press of your face, your lips, to her inner thigh. The softness of the skin actually surprises you and doesn’t at the same time.

Again, you know better. Skin is skin. The thigh is hardly a place to grow callouses, and she’s basically royalty, too. But _soft_ is near the bottom of the list of adjectives you’d ever use to describe her. In your fascination, you forget to be meek. You open your mouth and lick at the skin, sucking gently.

You are rewarded with a, “ _hm_ ,” and a tug to your neck. Taking the hint, you make haste. You drag your mouth closer to where she wants it, virtually licking a stripe up her leg.

She’s wearing plain black underwear to match her dress, and then you pause. She seems to have no interest in moving off you and you hardly have the strength to rip it off her, boneless as you are. Not that you would ever have the nerve to. You could only get them off via miracle.

Looking up at her, you have half a mind to reach out and shove it aside, but you’ve spent too long deliberating. Her eyes fly open.

She hisses a curse, whether it’s at you or her panties, you don’t know. She doesn’t care to elaborate, simply tears it off like it’s nothing and tosses it aside.

All of a sudden, you are nose-to-cunt. You exhale, nervous now, conscious of your own inexperience. You spare her a glance, drinking in the way she’s draped over the chair, eyes half-lidded. She’s gorgeous. She allows you this pause without complaint.

Looking back down, you notice the wetness there, her heady scent. That burning need returns with a vengeance and you poke the top of your tongue out to lick once from bottom to top, your nose grazing through trimmed hair. You repeat, stroke deeper and longer so your tongue presses almost flatly against her. And again.

She tastes unlike anything else you’ve ever had the fortune of putting in your mouth, and you coat yourself in her like you’ve been starved and she’s a five-course meal.

Halfway through her first breathy moan, you moan, too, just as your tongue passes over her clit. She _keens_ and, growing bolder, your tongue circles the bud, skirts carefully around. 

Her hand tightens and her nails leave crescent moons in the side of your neck, and you hold still, gasping over her clit.

“Remember my opinion of human arrogance, _pet_ ,” she bites out, haughtily. Another tidal wave of desire washes over you, and she lets out an airy chuckle. “Look at you. Soaking yourself through over anything I give you. You were made to be mine. My little whore.”

You whimper, eyes fluttering shut. It’s almost too much to bear, being held still against her, unable to do anything.

With another huff of laughter, she loosens her hold, and you resume lapping at her. Her arousal slicks your tongue, mouth, and chin, making the task ahead of you a slippery one. This is partly because you’ve tried your best to bury your face there. You still take this as an indication that you’re doing it right.

She throws her other leg over your shoulder, pushing into your face as she does. The points of her heels poke into you.

You shorten your passes on her clit, tonguing at her, around her, until her legs clench down around you. You close your lips around her just as she bucks up into you. She is not a patient lover. Neither is she a silent one, her moans and grunts and gasps music to your ears even muffled by alabaster thighs.

You’re scared you’ve stained her carpet with how wet you are. She must know, must relish in your need, in knowing she could fulfil it, and in the power that comes with denying you. All you can do is squeeze your legs together and grind into nothing as you bring her closer and closer to the edge.

She utters one particularly emphatic, “ _fuck_ ,” and then a few more, and then a moan when she climaxes against your face. You barely hear it, lost in the taste of her. You only lighten up when she lets go of your neck, moving to her thighs to clean her up as best you can.

She shoves your head away after she fully recovers.

For a second, she simply sits there, legs spread wide and chest rising with a breath she takes, and looks down at you, considers you. Her hair is still smooth as a sheet, falling into her face so you can only see shadows of her face. Then, she stands, readjusts her dress, and steps over your knees. It’s almost like it never happened.

She strides to a nearby table, papers scattered atop, and plucks a handkerchief from a box. When she looks over her shoulder, you are still slumped on your knees and trying not to rub yourself to orgasm right then and there. You’re not so sure she’d be happy with that.

At the sight of you, she huffs a laugh and turns, leaning against the table with her arms folded. You look back at her, unsure of yourself.

“Up,” she finally commands with a snap of her fingers, like you’re her pet.

That’s what she calls you, after all. You stand.

You find that you take to direction with ease. 

She’s smiling—you feel like you might develop a Pavlovian response to that, where you’ll instinctively feel aroused and also in fear for your life. How sad.

“Always so obedient,” she muses. “Come to me.”

After all that, you feel that maybe you have earned the right to question her. “Are you going to feed now?”

She narrows her eyes, answers nevertheless, “Yes.”

Briefly, you are both silent, just regarding one another from a distance.

You take a step forward, wincing at the ache in your knees that comes with staying in one position for too long. Another step and another, until you’re between her legs once more.

This time, she deliberately slips a knee between your thighs and, at your desperate whine, bares her teeth in a parody of a smile. She puts the handkerchief in your hand, pats your cheek, condescending. “You’ll need this later.”

Delicately, she tugs the collar of your shirt lower, smooths a hand over the curve of your throat, and lays her cheek upon your shoulder. She inhales deeply and exhales a blissful sigh as one would over a warm, homemade dinner.

And then she bites.

You use the last of your wits to move your hands up, squeeze at her shoulders. You don’t hold back, digging your nails in. Your strength is nothing compared to hers, which she exerts upon you with an arm around your waist and a hand on your head, to keep you at her mouth.

Without her hold, you would’ve buckled to the floor.

It hurts. You are not surprised by how painful this is, despite not knowing before quite how this would feel. Feels exactly like what it is: sharp teeth spearing through your skin, the surface of a vein, and sucking with fervour.

You fall into her almost immediately after she removes her teeth and starts drinking from you. Conveniently, the wet heat of your core catches on her tensing thigh.

If she hadn’t gone and ruined the mood with her vampire bullshit, you might have climaxed on the spot. As it were, she has to push insistently against you, somehow finding some friction in the slick between your legs, until you rut down.

You feel her smile into your neck. Her tongue is hot, warmed by your own blood, and you pitch forward at the feel of it. It’s followed by a strange sensation, the receding of pain into, well, less pain. As it fades away, pleasure floods in and takes its place.

Your hands slip off, arms flopping onto her back, bending around so that you’re practically cradling her to you. You grind yourself to release on her leg as she licks at your neck, cleaning up the running drops of blood with the tip of her tongue with a satisfied hum. You almost fall to the floor.

She deposits you on the table, on your side, none too gently but not as carelessly as she could have. With a roll of her eyes, she picks up the handkerchief you had dropped on the table, shoves it back into your palm, and slaps your hand onto your neck. At the sting, you grit your teeth and mutter out a string of curses in your language.

She straightens up, rising over you. Something about her is charged, refreshed after the drink she’d taken from you. You could close your eyes, not touch her at all, and still feel her presence. Your skin burns under her gaze, almost unbearable in the stickiness of your pants. You focus instead on the heat around the two puncture marks in your neck.

“How much did you take?”

“You’ll live,” she says, dismissively.

Reaching out, she pushes one of your legs until you roll onto your back and steps into the space between. She hunches over you, slips a hand under your lower back, and another—

Still a little sensitive, you arch into her, movements jerky, at the first touch of her fingers slipping between your folds. They are cold, a relief to the white-hot heat. You make a few broken sounds as she repeats the movement, circling your clit with her thumb and gathering up the slick on her middle finger.

You were scared of her nails, earlier. Now, you really only think about it when she makes a point out of poking you. Even then, you just mewl at the sensation.

Smug, she says: “You’re just... so desperate,” and you don’t need to wait around any more. You’re so wet she basically slips inside by accident. In response, your hand clamps down on your neck, her’s pushing deeper into you, and you howl.

She fucks into you, deliberately, basking in the frantic way you’re trying to cope with the pain and the pleasure she’s dished out. The whole time, she stares into your eyes, locking you there.

You can’t take it.

“More.”

“More?” Her face hardens. Fuck.

“Please. More, please.”

She scowls, curls her finger just a little and making you yowl before she slips back out. “Convince me.”

“God, fuck, _please_ , more.” You groan when she thrusts back in with that crook to her finger. “Please, I was made for you. Please.”

“Oh, were you?” Closer, nosing at your cheekbone. She digs her thumb into your clit, and you cry out. “What a mess you’ve made,” she whispers into the side of your jaw with a groan.

Even in your unintelligible state, you have the sense to turn away when she leans in to press her lips against yours. You don’t think you could stomach the taste of your own blood. You let your head thud onto the table, twisting your mouth away, so she ends up raking her teeth down your jaw. It turns out not to be a good instinct.

She lets out a strangled sound of outrage. It’s a simple matter of shooting up, getting your limp upper body off the table, so your head hangs uselessly, throat open to the world, and she sinks her teeth in. 

You scream in pain for only a few seconds before she starts licking to soothe it, before she slides a second finger into you. After you’re moving weakly to meet her rhythm, she works a third finger into her thrusts. 

She plies into you without abandon, lips fastened to your neck, moving with you as you grind into her palm. You stretch wonderfully around three of her fingers, pushed to her knuckles. At each thrust, she presses into a spot in your front wall that has you straining out garbled obscenities.

It is as much the notably deep thrust and the hard press of her palm as it is the grunted words she utters after she pulls herself away from your neck that does it for you: “You’re pitiful. Pathetic. Getting on your knees for me so quickly. You really were made for me.”

You don’t register the majority of what she’s saying; you might have blacked out for a moment. What you do know is she continues shallow thrusts, just her middle finger, as you ride it out.

When you start coming back to yourself, you find yourself on the table, the back of your head smarting. She probably dropped you.

Above you, propped up by a hand next to your head, she looms. She looks like a statue. She stares down at you blankly and pulls her hand out from your pants, leaving you bereft. Bands of light cast across her face, through strands of her hair. 

She puts three wet fingers to your lips, dips in enough to wedge them between your teeth. Then, pulls them back out and wipes her hand on your cheek instead. “You’ll clean up your own messes next time, pet.”

Her eyes, a shade of blue so light they look white at the moment, bore into yours.

“Next time?” you mumble, eyes sticking shut as bone-deep exhaustion overwhelms you.

It is her smile, so insincere, that you see last before you close your eyes.


	2. Through the Threshold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it silicone, baby! idk what the showering situation was but im gonna say these vampires are ahead of the game w shampoo, conditioner, body wash, maybe some face cleanser etc etc

* * *

**Part 2**

* * *

You feel like you’re made of putty, and like you’ve been dug into by probing fingers. Which, you suppose, you have.

The bed seems never-ending in the dark; probably, it couldn’t fit into your room back home, even if you broke the wall down into the bedroom next to yours. Though, that speaks more to how small your room was.

The sheets are red and silky over your exposed skin where your shirt has ridden up.

You’re too sore to get up immediately, so you lie a bit more, gathering up your energy.

Despite the persisting light-headedness, you sit up and shuffle to the side, so your legs fall over the edge of the bed. You stand with a deep breath, gripping wildly for the bedside table to stop yourself from tipping over. It would be a shame to die that way after surviving what you have.

When you finally manage to blink the haze out of your eyes, you stagger to the thick curtains and pull them open. Light floods in, brilliant and searing. It is almost sunset. 

Your eyes sting, so you close them, but you don’t know if it’s from the sudden brightness or from the tears that spring up.

It feels like aeons since you’d last seen sun. So far from home, it will never be the same as the humid warmth you’re accustomed to. It is, ultimately, the same sun you’ve always known, hanging there in the sky, so you stand at the window and bask.

After a while, your eyes grow accustomed to the light behind your eyelids, and you open them by a fraction. The tears, you blink away. 

You must be in a different part of the castle. The view you have is of a partially frozen lake and white hills. If you leaned closer, pressed your cheek to the glass, you could see the outskirts of the Styrian village you had first come by.

The room is spacious. The walls are faintly off-white, detailed with gold patterns along the edges. It looks like something from your most insane dreams, which is fitting; you can hardly believe this is your reality. You can’t tell if this would be a nightmare or not.

See, you don’t exactly regret the sex. As the woman had said: either way, she was going to feed. You had a choice, kneeling there, to refuse her advances. She would simply have reached for your throat again and fed, and left you alone after.

(You do wonder if you’d be here still if it were just a feeding. Maybe she’d have cast you out after, drained but alive.)

It’s the feeding that gets you. The second bite, taken without warning. If you had allowed the kiss, would she still have bitten? You couldn’t think straight at the time—was that a sound of anger or hunger after you’d refused her kiss? And, most importantly, what’s her goddamn name?

You want answers, but when you catch sight of an open door, to a bathroom, you bench it for later. First, a bath.

There’s a tub, filled already. As you shed yourself of your clothes, you notice the colourful bottles balanced on the edge of the tub and the slats at the top of the wall, where cold air whistles through. When you dip your elbow in, you find it barely lukewarm. 

It’s the best shower you’ve had in your life.

The last full wash you’d had was the day before you’d seen Styria on the hill. It was in a pool at the bottom of a waterfall a few hours walk from here. The bar of soap you kept in your bag had been crumbling to nothing when you’d come to Styria looking to restock.

Speaking of which: did they throw your bag out? Are you now left with no material things at all? And now, taking stock of yourself, you’re upsettingly aware of your hunger.

You don’t know why there are so many bottles, but you pick based on the texture of what comes out. There’s a set of towels folded on the counter under the mirror, and you wrap yourself up when you step out of the bath, shivering.

Drying up, you eye yourself in the mirror, assessing the damage. There are mottled bruises along your arms and stomach, and around your neck.

You get a closer look, and you’re surprised that your neck is... actually not as bad as you had thought. There are healing scabs where her nails had dug in. It’s the bite marks that take you back. Two clean puncture wounds on either side, albeit small, healing ones. You don’t even think you’ll scar.

It really isn’t all that bad. You weren’t protesting the bruises when it was the woman leaving them there, anyway.

The worst bruise is your midriff, where the guard had kicked you. What scares you the most is how sunken and wan you look. Sure, you feel cleaned and marginally reinvigorated, but you cannot wash your history from your body. It has not been easy. Your time in Styria has been an extension of the frugal life you’d been leaving, and at least you’d been given orgasms here.

The sound of heels. You jerk away from the mirror and close to throwing yourself at the door.

Like before, the curtains are drawn shut. All the candles are lit, though. The woman perches on the edge of a chair, regal and unruffled as ever. She drinks you in, deems your current state acceptable, and gestures to a plate she’s brought. 

It’s next to her, on a small round table, and you’re hesitant to approach.

Annoyed with your lack of movement, she touches the space between her brows and grits out, “Eat.”

You tuck the towel tighter to yourself, thankful for its size, and seat yourself in the other chair. The food is steaming fresh and smells so good you can do nothing but reach for the fork and start scarfing it down. On the plate, there are also two giant jugs of water.

“Good.” She turns aside to watch you, piercing eyes and all, leaning her elbow on the table and her chin into her palm.

The whole thing is gone in minutes. She doesn’t speak, just watches you. Her face doesn’t betray any emotion. You wonder if she’s disgusted or curious or both. Even you’d be astonished by this display of appetite.

You’re still hungry, but you don’t say so. Instead, you gingerly set the fork down and wipe your mouth with the napkin, folded into a neat triangle under your plate.

Then, you ask what you’ve wanted to since you’d seen her coming down the dungeon steps. You thought it might be crossing a line to ask for details of her life but, having spent a good half hour between her legs, it’s trivial.

So, abrupt, though not rude, you ask: “What’s your name?” 

Amused, her eyebrows raise. “Carmilla.”

“Oh.” You pause to choose your next question. “How long has it been?”

“Maybe 20 hours.” A huff. “I said you’d survive; I didn’t say fully intact.”

You sigh at her impatience, letting out a weary, “Okay.”

She moves on, nodding towards a stack of folded clothes on the end of the bed. “Get dressed.”

She snorts but doesn’t stop you when you pick up the pile and retreat to the bathroom. You think to make her look at what she’s done, the anaemic look you’ve taken on, but you still have a sick need to be desirable to her. 

Then again, you don’t know if you ever were. You don’t know if you were just there, available and willing.

Carmilla seems to get off on her own power. Titillates, in knowing you want her, will follow her instruction, no matter how she treats you. Like you, curiosity is a factor in this. She is always observing you, testing you.

In turn, you want to sink in and lose yourself in the inner workings of her brain. And then there is naked desire. In some ways, you were indeed made for her. You have, so far, taken everything she’s given. She provides for you direction and release, and you don’t know entirely why you crave that the way you do.

It comes with a sense of belonging. Maybe that’s it.

What she says, you have done. Of course, it has not always been without question or entirely on her terms. Despite all that, here you are in her castle. You do check yourself, make sure not to get ahead of yourself. You’ve slept in a bed, eaten a meal, dressed up for her; none of this, you have chosen. None of this, however, you have protested.

You slip on the everyday undergarments, first disappointed that they aren’t racier, like Carmilla had sent someone to pick out your clothes at random, then you feel silly. Shaking your head, you move on to the rest of the pile.

Your new shirt is thin, airy, and white. The pants are thicker, a deep navy, and the right length if you tie them properly. But, because of the bruise, you seat them lower on your hips and have to fold the bottoms twice.

Your flimsy, worn-out clothes lie forgotten on the floor.

When you come back out, you see another woman in your chair. Her large frame easily replacing the space where your borderline frail self had been. The way she’s sneering at Carmilla, the way Carmilla just seems fondly disgruntled, suggests that they are equals. 

It seems you are in the presence of half the Styrian oligarchy.

You linger in the doorway, unsure now. They look at you.

“...that?” the woman says, flatly. “What’s so special? We have blood stores.”

You bite your lip, knowing to keep your thoughts to yourself. Still, Carmilla feels the need to shoot you a glower. You tense your jaw and advert your gaze briefly.

“I have not forgotten,” Carmilla says, smoothly, turning back to the other woman.

She looks entertained by your muted indignation, sweeping a hand in your direction. “No, seriously. Not even virgin.”

Now, Carmilla is shit-eating. “Not anymore, no.”

Your face is set aflame as the other woman guffaws. “God, Carmilla.”

“You should have tasted it, the transition from pure to impure,” Carmilla says, and you realise now why she bit you twice. The second bite, stretched around her fingers for the first time.

“Thanks for sharing,” she says, sardonically.

Carmilla, catty, scoffs. “Oh, Striga, don’t get worked up over it—we have blood stores.”

“So, what now?” 

“What now, indeed?” She looks to you, and you have no answers for her. She’s the one with all the cards, isn’t she? At your pointed silence, her gaze turns a little dangerous, and she hums in thought. “We’ll have to see, won’t we?”

Striga chuckles. “Oh, I _do_ see. Jealous, are we? Lenore’s got one, so you have to have one too.”

“It’s only fair,” says Carmilla, airily.

“Hm. She’s quiet.”

You shrug and speak for the first time, “Neither of you seems particularly interested in hearing what I have to say.”

“We’re not,” Carmilla says, brusquely, slants her head to look at Striga. You roll your eyes. “Don’t you have matters to attend to?”

When Striga leaves, it’s with a cackle of laughter and a patronising look. “She’s got a temper, I’m sure you know. Good luck.”

“Fuck off a little faster,” Carmilla huffs at the closing door. They really are like sisters.

The room descends into silence after that. You, hovering in the threshold, and she, appraising you from her chair. It’s becoming a pattern, her upon a throne with you at her beck and call. You almost forget you’ve only known her for a day. 

Eventually, she tilts her head and shifts her hand, beckoning you over. She makes a noise of approval when you push off the doorframe, sitting yourself down in the chair without hesitation. 

“The way I see it, you have a choice to make,” she starts, primly smoothing out the tops of her pants. “One option: you leave here by sunrise, and you make sure I never see you again for the rest of your short, miserable life. I won’t be so kind again.”

You don’t think either of you would ever call her _kind_. You don’t say this, in case she decides to show you just how unkind she can be. “Or?”

“Or you stay.”

“Why?” You have an inkling, but it doesn’t hurt to know for sure what her angle is. “Why let me go?”

“There are lines even I do not cross,” she says, simply. 

“And if I stay? Why do you even—”

“I haven’t tasted anything quite like you before.” She seems reticent, and you chafe at the _anything_ as if you aren’t an any _one_. You don’t make a thing of it. To her credit, Carmilla has stayed awfully tolerable of your questions so far. “If you stay, I feed.”

In other words, you would be a walking blood bag. “What would I get in return?”

“What do you think, pet?” she asks in a sugary-sweet tone. If that predatory smile of hers had a sound, this would be it. 

Definitely, if you stayed, it would not be easy for you. Not only would you be part-time vampire food, she probably wouldn’t even treat you as anything else. Why would she? That’s essentially what you’d agree to become. 

You consider your options: turn tail and forget this had ever happened, or stay. You’d be housed and fed like a king, and if you’re catching Carmilla’s drift, fucked like a working girl at the village brothel. Which isn’t entirely unappealing. Quite the opposite.

“Oh, incredible,” she condescends as she grasps your face, thumb brushing down a cheek. “I could say anything, and you’d agree to it, wouldn’t you, the weak-willed thing that you are?”

To your horror, your face heats up and you shift on your seat, and she laughs. She lets go of your face, patting your cheek once, like you’re a child, and gets up. You have so many things to say, you don’t even know where to begin, so you end up saying nothing at all.

“Yes,” she says as she leaves, “I think I’ll be keeping you.”

It’s up to you now. You have until dawn to choose. 

Left to your own devices, you decide to wander your potential home. There are a pair of shoes left for you, and you slip them on, grimacing at the pinch. Outside, a couple of guards glide down the hall, paying you no mind. Carmilla is long gone. 

At the end of the hall is a staircase leading downwards, deeper into the stomach of the castle. You descend, sticking close to the walls, strangely afraid of taking up too much space. 

Somehow you find a kitchen. 

Maybe five or six kitchen staffers are bustling about and, like the guards, they ignore you. You’re about to ask if you can get something to eat when the door on the other side opens with a bang. 

A man comes in, broken piece of bread in hand. There’s something about him that strikes you as different. At the sight of you, he freezes, and you see why. His teeth, two even rows of white. 

Vampires, the ones you have met at least, have a way of carrying themselves like the Earth was made to be walked on by them. This man seems disgruntled like everything is an inconvenience, but in a way that makes him out to be bitter and shifty about it. 

You see him say something to himself. Then, he blinks and comes to stand in front of you. “You’re human.”

“Are you…” And he nods. 

Before you can ask him more questions, he’s walking to a cluster of baskets sitting off to the side and opening up the nearest one. From it, he gathers up a bunch of grapes and lays them in a bowl he takes from a counter. None of the vampires in the room say anything. Apprehensively, you follow suit. 

“That one has some bread if you want.” 

You take a plain round bun, balancing it on top of your grapes and hugging the bowl to yourself. You look to him, and he herds you through the kitchen, out the door he had come in through. 

You wonder who he is, why he’s here, and how long he’s been here. 

He seems to know his way around, so you follow his lead. You’re halfway through introducing yourself when he comes to a huge set of doors and lurches against it to get it open. It leads to a wide balcony that wraps around the exterior. 

Under his breath, he mutters something about stupid vampires and their obsession with large doors. Then, he tells you his name is Hector with a grumble. 

He’s a little odd and more than a little cold.

“Are you, um.” You stop, shifting your weight. “…a guest?”

He scoffs, barely looking at you. In fact, he goes as far as to abandon you and approach the railing. 

“I’m a prisoner.” At your confusion, he sighs and plucks a grape off its stem. There is a red and black ring around a finger. “I’m a forgemaster who’s outlived my use, yet they keep me here as a slave, to amuse them.”

You’ve heard of devil forgemasters, of their handiwork tearing Wallachia to shreds, and you shudder. 

Seeing this, he smiles and pops the grape in your mouth. “Do I disgust you?”

Ordinarily, yes. You are, however, seriously considering putting aside all your principles because an attractive woman promised to fuck the life out of you. You don’t really have a leg to stand on. 

You step out. “No, I’m just cold.”

“Ah, I’m used to it now, I suppose.” His face becomes unreadable, and he follows the bend, going farther out. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“I… don’t know yet.” You thumb at the bread, unsurprised by the painful awareness of your own helplessness. He lets you explain, and you do, from the beginning. 

You tell him about being kicked out of home, wandering the lands, too anxious to settle down in any of the towns you had come across before here. You tell him about following the dirt path into the village, about the guard, and the dungeon.

His face twists into a snarl when you get to meeting Carmilla. It would be better to spare him the details. 

Idly, you touch your neck, feeling the tender bruises there, the raised bumps on both sides. He watches you and echoes the movement, ghosting his fingers across his neck.

“I used to think the human race needed to be culled. We are capable of such cruelty, after all.” His frown deepens, voice tightening with conviction. “Maybe it’s not just us that needs to be cleansed.”

Something compels you to come clean. You are not the same— “I’ve been given a choice.”

He stops short, seems to sag against the arm atop the icy railing. “Why are you still here?”

“I don’t know.”

His knuckles go white, fist curling around the bannister. “What did that bitch do to you?”

Thinking about what she’d done to you makes your cheeks warm up, and he looks disbelieving. You shrug. “I agreed to it.”

“You didn’t. It’s the same as asking a child for consent—you can’t.” You scowl, but he doesn’t seem fazed, just sad. 

“It’s not the same,” you insist. “It’s not.”

“Okay,” he says, finally, “it’s not.”

For the second night in a row, you find yourself looking out at Styria under the stars again. This time, soundlessly and shoulder-to-shoulder with Hector the Forgemaster. 

In the end, the only thing you two have in common is that you pity the other.

Your grapes are long gone by the time you take your leave. A vampire appears on the other end of the landing to collect Hector—the infamous Lenore, third member of the oligarchy. 

She eyes you with interest, something profoundly disquieting about her presence. “You’re Carmilla’s.”

Hector says nothing, just gives you one last imploring look before heading back inside, as broody and grumpy as he’d been from the start. 

“Wait for me,” Lenore calls out to him, voice light, but you make no mistake in assuming it isn’t a command.

You rub at your arms, nervous and cold. Unlike Carmilla, Lenore makes a show of remembering your name and treating you as a guest. 

It strikes you, then, why she makes your skin crawl. Hector had told you a little bit about what had happened to him; objectively speaking, Carmilla and Lenore are terrible people. 

Lenore hides behind pleasantries, willing to bide her time so she can dig into the soft flesh where it hurts most. This isn’t to say you think she’d scarier than Carmilla—you don’t underestimate either of them. Definitely, Carmilla is capable of such cruelty, too. She just prefers to exact other methods when getting what she wants. 

If Lenore senses how unsettled you are, she doesn’t show it. “Can I take your bowl?” 

“Sure,” you say, lilting up at the end in question. “Thanks.”

“Brilliant,” Lenore says, smile wide enough for her fangs to poke out, and looks at you through her lashes, midturn. “Carmilla’s right upstairs, by the way. You can’t miss her.”

You blink. “Oh. Thanks.”

“No problem, pet,” she says. She looks momentarily intrigued by you, but then she’s sauntering back in with a tinkling laugh. “See you around.” 

They disappear around a corner, your and Hector’s bowls stacked up in his hands. 

Wishing to shake off the encounter, you hurry indoors and take the steps two at a time. 

Just as Lenore said, you can’t miss it: a door flanked on either side by proud red banners and guards. 

For a long while, after you knock, there is no acknowledgement. The guards don’t tell you to leave, so you assume that she _is_ in there and so you wait. One of them gives you a dirty look, but you pay him no mind.

“Enter.”

You push the door open with surprising ease, seeing as it’s about three times your height, and you walk in. It takes you a moment to spot Carmilla, lounging on a long chair with a glass in hand. Inside, you know, is blood. 

Clad in only a silky black robe, she gives you a look. Your heart rate picks up. “Close the door.”

“I thought vampires could hear through walls,” you say as you shut them anyway.

“Ours are enchanted. Soundproof.” She smirks, and you register the implications of what you just said, flushing. “Your questions are always so insightful.” 

Swallowing, you lean your back to the door and watch her set her glass down with a delicate clink, giving you her undivided attention. You feel the flames of desire burn on in your centre, but you do your best to set that aside—for now.

“I’m glad you think so; I have many to ask you,” you say, ignoring her suggestive look with great difficulty.

Rolling her eyes, her face returns to its standard look of indifference and she motions with her hand. “Well, go on then.”

You pick your words carefully. “If I stay, will I still be… free?”

“I won’t keep you in a cage,” she says, mildly.

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

Carmilla is uncaring. “Then say what you mean.”

“So, I’ll come and go as I please?”

“No,” she says, bluntly. “Not exactly.”

You have half a mind to leave right this instant, but she holds up a hand and, of course, you stay. 

“You come and go as _I_ please, and I give you permission. Frankly, I doubt I’ll care what you get up to when I have no use for you.” Sweeping an arm out, she says, “So, by all means, roam the castle, leave the grounds—the world is your oyster and whatnot.” 

“But?” you ask, and her eyes turn flinty.

“But it would do you well to remember what you are to me. When I have a need, you had better be there to see to it.” She need not finish her threat, so she smiles. “At the end of the day, you would be mine.”

“All right,” you agree, gamely. It’s nothing you didn’t expect. It’s fair: you get what you want, and she gets what she wants. “I imagine you’ll take from me however often you want.”

Carmilla hums. “I won’t bleed you dry, for obvious reasons.” She levels you with a heated gaze, and you wonder if she’s practised that before. You squeeze your legs together. “As for the other sort of _taking_ you might be referring to, well, come now. Let’s not pretend you won’t be grovelling for it, depraved little thing.”

In one smooth movement, she untucks her legs from under her and stands to her full height. She basically prowls across the room, coming to stand over you. You hold your breath, wanting so very badly to touch her and knowing not to. 

“Hm? Won't you be begging for me?” Your skin rises with goosebumps where she hovers nearby. “Tell me the truth.”

It’s disconcerting how quickly she turns the tables. The questions you had lined up get lost in your desire. You become hyperaware of her every move.

“I...” You whimper when she rakes a nail down your cheek. “I will.”

“What did I say?” Her fingers skim the nape of your neck, and she laughs at you, at the sopping mess in your pants. “Depraved.”

You are unbearably hot, and the coldness of her touch is sweet relief.

Out of nowhere, she changes tracks, moving her hand away from you, behind you, and locking the door. The sound of it, the clicking of things into place, echoes in your ears. 

She extracts herself from your personal space entirely, sighing in contentment. 

“So needy, so pliable. I will take from you whenever I want, and you won’t do anything but give and give and give.” She walks through a door, into a closet, and you can see her outline through the spaces in the door, still pressed up against the door.

“Yeah,” you croak, stupidly. 

Another laugh. “Get on the bed. Undress.”

Your mind instantly flies into the gutter, where it had been toeing at the edges, and you think you might be dripping at this point. 

Her room is larger than your old town hall, and you feel tiny crossing the space to her bed. 

You smooth a hand over the deep red sheets, momentarily distracted from your arousal by how lush it is. You had thought she might have slept in a coffin. This is more fitting, with the metal posts bent in artful curves.

Awkwardly, you toe-off your shoes and balance on the corner of the mattress, working at the buttons of your shirt. 

Carmilla seems to be taking her time doing whatever she’s doing, but you know not to make her wait. You shove your pants off, leaving them crumpled over your shoes. Your undergarments join them in seconds.

Bare in such a vast space, you feel uncomfortably vulnerable. You hunch your shoulders and sit stiffly.

You’re so wet, it almost hurts not to reach down and take care of yourself. You don’t do it; you don’t know what sort of wrath that would bring down upon you, rubbing yourself to completion on her bed, on her sheets. 

Your head snaps up when she returns. Her arms are crossed over her chest, staring at you in thought. 

Suddenly, she’s prying your legs open to stand between them. She cups your face, possessive, and lowers down to nose at your jugular. 

“I, um,” you get out, scrambling for words. “I—I don’t want to taste my own blood.”

“I’m not feeding tonight. In a few days.” 

She pulls back a bit and forces your head up. If you angled your face slightly, your lips would brush. 

“Anyway, you’ll get used to the taste,” she husks before pressing in with an almost bruising force, hand firm on your face. 

Her mouth opens, and she licks in, and you taste copper. You had forgotten she was drinking from a glass earlier. 

You have no space to complain. Really, you lose the will to. 

You succumb to her insistence, tilting your head to accommodate.

Impossibly, she deepens the kiss, sucking your lower lip into her mouth. When she nicks at your flesh with her canine, she simply passes her tongue over it, paying your hiss of pain no mind and fixing you right up. 

When her other hand palms at a breast, you gasp into her smiling mouth. She catches a nipple in the space between her fingers. She pinches it between her thumb and forefinger, twists. 

You make a whiny sound when she lets go of you, but you shut up when she begins to untie the knot holding her robe together. 

Before the knot comes undone, she pauses, expectant. “On your knees, pet.”

Unmoving, trying to process everything, you blink, rapidly.

Her face darkens, and you snap out of it. “ _Kneel_.”

“Sorry,” you choke out. Hurriedly, meekly, you slip off the bed and drop down onto your knees, one thud following the other. Without pants on to cushion them, your bruises feel as tender as they did yesterday.

“You will be,” she says, sweetly, and her robe falls apart, and you think you might die.

Buckled around her waist are straps holding a dark, heavy phallic-shaped piece of material proudly. It’s about the length of your hand, and the diameter is under two-thirds of your forefinger. You don’t know what it’s made out of and you make a mental note to ask after this if your brain still works, that is. 

You know what is expected of you, what comes after, and you anticipate it as much as you are apprehensive. 

“Well?”

You shuffle closer, but you don’t touch it. Closer now, it’s almost intimidating. “It can’t fit.”

“It can.” Apathetic, Carmilla drags her nails over your scalp, combing your hair back before grabbing on to your head with both hands and tugging you closer. “It _will_.” 

Another wave of desire slams into you and you think, maybe, she’s right. Slowly, you fist the base of it and part your lips. Her hips twitch forwards, and the head of it passes through your swollen lips, onto your tongue. You take it in further, and your mouth closes around it. 

You look up at her face, through your lashes, and she sighs, happily. “And to think, just yesterday you were a virgin. Didn’t even know how to beg for me.” 

You make a strangled sound around her, pulling off her with a gasp. Her face pinches up, but you quickly lick from base to tip, to wet the way ahead. 

She huffs a laugh. “My little _whore_.” For emphasis, she thrusts into your mouth and keeps it up, shallow for now. “Opening yourself up for me, sucking at me so easily. Funny, making a fuss about my taking from you when you yourself are so eager to take from me.”

You need something more, anything; you’d even ride the tip of a shoe to completion if she offered it to you as she had before. In hopes of hurrying it along, you start bobbing your head on the top half of her, the part you can comfortably take.

A sharp tug—she’s caught on. She pulls you off, and you whine a little, mouth still open as if her cock was still inside. “Patience,” she growls. “I like you on your knees.”

“Please,” you say, squeezing your thighs together.

She makes a sound, like she’s deep in thought, and eases herself onto the edge of her bed. Automatically, you shuffle on your knees to settle between her legs. Your hand is still wrapped around the shaft, the other on her tense thigh, and she guides your head back to it.

“The utter lack of dignity,” she scoffs, and you lose hope that she’ll help you out while you’re doing this. She twitches up, bumping into your parted lips. “Make better use of your mouth.” 

Like yesterday, you want badly to make her lose her composure. It would only be fair. So, you suck her back into your mouth and press lower into her crotch, applying pressure on her clit. A moan escapes her. 

Shakily, she exhales as you return to bobbing your head into her lap. 

When you don’t speed up, she takes the initiative and jerks her hips. You nearly gag but you’re midway through pulling back out when she does it, so it doesn’t go as far as it could have. 

Your cheeks hollow out, holding her there, three-quarters of the way in. 

You squeeze so tight around the shaft, knuckles white, you’re afraid she might somehow feel it, but then you let go, and you force yourself to relax. 

Both hands braced on her thighs, you inhale through your nose and take her fully into your mouth. It sinks in, pressing against your throat, every bit of the strap inside of you. 

She utters a breathy curse, looking down at you through half-lidded eyes. “You were made for me to fuck.”

You ease her dick halfway out only to suck her all the way back in, just the once. After that, she starts up her own pace, fucking your face just to where it bumps into the back of your mouth. 

You can barely keep up with her, trying to grind down on the floor while she’s keeping you still, using your mouth.

“Made for me,” she hisses with a thrust, and you manage a garbled moan around the give of the material. She must feel the sound, the resistance, against her clit because she curses again.

Then, she holds tight on a particularly deep snap of her hips, and you take it as she groans out, and you have to clamp down on her thighs to stop yourself from touching yourself. 

As she recovers, her hands slip down to your shoulders, and you lower onto your heels, sucking lightly, mindlessly. 

“Enough,” she eventually says, strained. “This will suffice. Get up.”

You get to your feet—and she kisses you with fury. She was right when she said you’d get used to the taste of blood. 

Hand on your back, she rotates your bodies and cages you against the mattress. 

She pulls back, her eyes dark with intent, and advances. The bed dips as she drags herself up to sit close enough that you feel the base of the cock against you. 

She hikes your legs over her thighs, holds them apart, and admires the view. You’re glistening with how wet you are, clenching around nothing. Out of malice, she moves back, so you lose the friction at your folds, and you whimper.

You can feel your pulse throb in your clit.

You wrinkle the sheets between your fingers, arching up as if to offer yourself to her. “Please,” you beg, “I need it.”

She looms over you, then, a hand on your abdomen, another tightening around your throat. “Remember this, next time you think you can’t take something I give you.”

With a sneer, she lines the head up and pushes in. It’s jarring at first, your own spit having cooled in the air, but she buries the shaft deeper, and you can only burn and burn and burn.

It turns out to be an embarrassingly easy job of bottoming out. Aided by your own slobber and your wetness, sure, but she still laughs and flexes the hand at your neck. “You _were_ made for this, weren’t you? Made for me to feed on, fuck into. Perfect for it.”

Absurdly, this makes you blush. The idea that this, of all things, is what you excel at. 

Your whole world narrows down to the clenching of your muscles around Carmilla’s cock.

Then, she picks up a brutal pace and lets air into your lungs so she can palm at your breast, and you stop thinking entirely. 

The whole time, she looks down at you smugly.

In a matter of minutes, you’re hurtling to an orgasm, wound up as tight as you were. The room fills up with the obscene sounds of her front clapping into you and your own gasps and moans.

She does not slow down in the slightest, fucking you hard and fast through it. 

At one point, she hoists you up and holds your legs up to get more leverage. The thick head pushes into a spot in your front wall just so. One of your legs falls onto her shoulder. 

A thumb circles your clit.

All of a sudden, you’re writhing, and you’re coming again. 

She’s slowed down by the time you start registering things again, your legs like jelly on the mussed sheets. You suck in a frantic breath, gradually uncurling your fists. 

Still stuffed full by her, she presses herself along your body and kisses you. Her robe is soft against you, smooth. The kiss itself is languid for the few moments it lasts, then: 

“Hands and knees.”

You make a pathetic sound and, after a pregnant pause, you crawl onto your front. Sluggishly, still feeling boneless, you bend your knees under you and prop yourself up on shaky arms. You try not to feel too embarrassed by the position.

“Good girl.” At that, you feel yourself getting wet again. 

Humming, she places a hand on your spine, and again you feel the shaft press against your folds, the tip teasing at your clit fleetingly when she positions herself behind you. Her hand strokes down your back, and you take comfort out of it. 

You know you’re close to oversensitive, and you get the feeling she’s about to wreck you.

In reward for your obedience, or maybe she simply wants to make you squirm, she waits a while after she pushes the head in and, oh yes, you’re oversensitive.

The room is still. You hear only the heavy sound of your breathing and the heavier weight of her dildo inside of you.

Finally, when you can’t wait any longer, you sway back a little. You keen when the head of her cock prods into you at this angle.

“So, can you take it?” she asks, sarcastic. She drives it in a little deeper, and you grit your teeth. “Hm?”

“I will,” you manage, and with a sudden burst of strength, you push back, your ass meeting her lap with a clap.

She is suspiciously silent, and you risk a glance over your shoulder to see her jaw slack in a quiet moan. When your eyes meet, she scowls, and her face hardens in determination. 

Snarling, she pulls back a tad only to ram it into you. You lurch forward, elbows buckling, your face in the sheets. Which is very convenient for her because she plants a hand on the side of your head, mushing your cheek, and pushes you into the mattress as she sets a ragged rhythm. 

You have a feeling you might end up drooling on her sheets.

It borders on too much, spectres of pain appearing amidst the intense pleasure—not just the way she’s pounding into you without abandon, but also because you’re still raw. But then you work with her, mustering the energy to push back into her with every thrust, and you’re consumed by a roaring thing of slick heat.

Your knees buckle, too, and you fold fully onto the bed as you come with her name on your lips. The strap can’t give any farther, and you slip off it with a wet sound. 

She grunts her dissatisfaction and, while you’re still trying to form words, she manhandles your hips up and buries herself inside you again, the backs of your sweaty thighs flush against her. You yowl, clenching your eyes shut, and you bunch the sheets in your fists next to your head.

Carmilla fucks into you once, twice, three times, and then she’s coming herself, falling onto you. 

She takes her own pleasure from your body, and you feel moments from passing out or exploding, or maybe passing out and then exploding.

Thankfully, after about a minute, she pulls out and rolls off you. 

You try to say something, you don’t know what, and you’re sure it doesn’t sound like any language known to any species. 

“Hush, pet.” She gathers you up in her arms and moves your head up to a pillow, drawing the blanket over your legs. You manage to pull it the rest of the way up, hugging it as you curl up around it. 

For her, the night must still be young, so you go to sleep alone.

When you wake up, sunrise long past, she is next to you.


	3. To the Other

* * *

**Part 3**

* * *

It’s daytime when you get up. At least, you think it is, based on your circadian rhythm. Carmilla keeps her room pitch-black, curtains sealed tight. 

In the light of the crackling fireplace, you see her asleep. She does so on her back, looking lonely atop her silky sheets. Maybe, in the past, she _had_ slept in a coffin, maybe she’d grown accustomed to sleeping like that.

You yelp when, out of nowhere, her eyes open and she sits up. 

An array of emotions flicker across her face before she settles onto a sharp-toothed grin. “Dawn’s long past. You’re mine now.”

“I...” You think to argue, but in the end, you just shrug. “Yeah.”

“Hm,” is all she says, flopping back down and closing her eyes. 

“I’m thinking I could go see the lake today.”

“I don’t care.” She waves a hand. “Be back in two sundowns.”

You make a sound of affirmation, and you move to get dressed, but you have to stop with a yelp. She cracks her eyes open to glare at you. 

Sheepishly, you apologise, “Just, um, sore.”

She snorts and says, snidely, “Have fun at the lake, my bowlegged pet.”

So, that’s not happening. You put on your clothes, making a note to ask for bigger shoes, and slip out the door. 

Officially given the freedom to the castle, you head into the kitchen and pillage the stores to your stomach’s content. A servant, looking like he drew the short straw, reluctantly tells you the kitchen will prepare you three large meals a day. The stores, he tells you, will be open to you always.

Your second order of business: cleaning yourself up. 

It takes you a while to navigate your way back to the room you were in yesterday, but when you do, you find it much the same. On a chair sits your bag, untouched. You take this to mean that you’ll sleep here when you aren’t with Carmilla. 

There’s a note tacked to the top of it which confirms this, along with a set of instructions on how to clean yourself thoroughly. You blush at that.

Looking in the mirror after the most interesting bath of your life, you notice a distinct lack of bite marks. Curious. 

The dresser is filled with varying sorts and sizes of clothes, and you take your pick. Still, you only have the one pair of too-small shoes which you make do with.

You decide to explore the floor, but you don’t get very far—there’s a library a few doors down, walls lined with shelves stocked full of books and other sorts of knickknacks. Almost immediately, you’re sucked into the literature. Your family was poor, but your father had been taught to read by the daughter of his employer, who had looked upon him with pity. Your father, in turn, decided that teaching you might make you more marriageable.

There’s a little crook by the window, high enough that you have to hop to get up there, and you drag a table over to pile upon your books and your snacks.

For the rest of the day, you alternate between the kitchen and the library.

It feels surreal. On the one hand, the afternoon seems lazy and ordinary. On the other, you aren’t yet used to the wealth quite literally painted across the walls. Also, it’s hard to forget the fucking you’d received last night, the deal you’d made. Nothing about this is ordinary.

Furthermore, the castle is eerily abandoned and gloomy in the day. It makes sense, all things considered, but you feel impossibly alone in such a vast place. 

(You don’t think Hector would be too happy to see you, so you don’t try to seek him out.)

Carmilla doesn’t come to you that night, and you toss-and-turn for hours before falling asleep close to midnight. 

The following day is spent much the same. 

You wonder if you’re experiencing separation anxiety which would be awfully humiliating since you’ve only known her two days and for most of that time, she’s been a bitch. There’s so much you don’t know about her, so you scour the library for a book on vampire physiology—she could’ve put you in a thrall? You’ve heard of those.

She didn’t, you discover. 

According to the book, vampires have different abilities, though there are some commonly shared features. For example, there is something about vampire saliva that has healing and neuroleptic properties; you don’t really understand some of the terms there, but it makes sense, with your wounds—or lack thereof.

Absently, you stick your own thumb into your mouth, feeling at the inside of your own lip. As you expected, it’s smooth where you know for certain she’d bitten through.

A small footnote catches your attention. You figure that she can shorten her nails like a cat which is… interesting. 

That’s how Carmilla finds you, reading with a candle on the windowsill. 

“Hi,” you say, closing the book and swinging your legs off to face her. 

She raises an eyebrow at your choice of reading. 

You flush and put the book down. Tentatively, you smile. “Thank you for putting me so close to the library.”

She just looks at you with the quirked eyebrow and steps in between your legs. Probably, you two have spent most of your time together squeezed between the other’s legs.

You stiffen when she strokes a hand at your collarbone. 

“Have you eaten anything else today?” she asks, sparing a quick glance on the bowl of grapes on your table. 

“Yes, lately I’ve been eating enough to feed a small nation.”

“Side effect of the blood loss,” she says, flippantly. “I’ll be feeding tonight.”

Your heart picks up the pace, recalling the pain of it last time. It was short-lived, yes, but it hurt nonetheless. “Give me a warning, please?”

She rolls her eyes but assents with a nod. “If you wish.”

Hands on your face, she descends upon your lips, and you reach out to cup her hips. Carmilla’s tongue flicks into your mouth, and then she’s guiding your face to a new angle, and you find it hard to breathe.

You gasp out when she pulls herself away from your lips, moving down to tongue at your neck. 

“Now?” you pant.

She rumbles against you with her chuckle. “Well, aren’t you eager?” You feel her teeth graze at your skin. “No. Not now.”

Then, she pulls away and takes your forearm to tug you down from your perch. 

“I don’t want you dirtying the pages of my books.”

“Oh,” you say, letting her yank you out the library. 

She lets go, and you hurry to catch up as she strides down the hall. You recognise the way back to her room, and your step stutters a little. Anticipation builds. As she turns a corner, she gives you a knowing look. 

As it turns out, she makes for the other door in her hall. The guards open the door for her, and she sweeps in, making a beeline for a regal looking chair. 

It’s her study. There’s a large wooden desk and shelves of old books. Before you can approach a shelf, she sits and clicks her fingers at you.

“Come,” she commands. 

Your eyes widen when you realise she wants you in her lap. More accurately, on one hard thigh. Sitting side saddle, your knees knock into the inside of her other leg. 

Making a sound of approval, she slings an arm around your back, under your arm, and her fingers fall on the slope of your ass. You end up having to put your own arm around her neck. 

She uses her other hand to tilt your head back and returns it to your leg after. Her lips touch your skin.

“Now?” you ask again. 

“Now,” she says, and tears into your neck.

Eyes wide enough to strain, your body jolts at the violent intrusion, but she holds fast. You are unable to dislodge, so the movement makes it worse. You squeeze your hand on her shoulder. 

You don’t think you’ll ever grow used to the pain. It’s too much.

Until she closes her lips around the wound, licking at it. Your brain tells you that it should hurt, the way her tongue momentarily probes into the bite, but it doesn’t. 

You relax in increments, eyelids sliding shut. 

With every few passes of her tongue, she sucks at your throat. Somehow, distantly, you can comprehend that she is stemming the bleeding, controlling how much she is taking at any given moment. It doesn’t feel like a lot, but then again, how would you know what counts as too much? 

For ages, she drinks from you.

Then, the wet hot of her mouth disappears for a second, and there’s a sound of rustling paper. You pry your eyes open to see what she’s up to—reading paperwork.

“Seriously,” you mumble.

The hand at your ass tightens, and she pushes her face back into your neck, inhaling the smell of you like one does to a glass of wine. “Unlike you, I am where I am not because I whored myself out, but because I put the work in.”

You shut up after that, flush with embarrassment and anger. 

She laughs and drags her wet mouth across your neck one final time. 

Before letting go, she hands you a handkerchief like before and gives you an almost tender squeeze. “Now, get out.”

You push down on your neck and give her a haughty look. Still, you are too tired to argue with her.

She doesn’t care, just goes back to reading as she waits for you to get off her. 

“Oh,” she says, remembering something just when you’re reaching for the door handle. “Don’t pass out in the hall. Go to my room if you must.” 

You roll your eyes. 

“And watch the attitude, pet,” she calls out to you, saccharine, just as you shut the door. 

You do go to her room, too exhausted to walk through this maze of a castle. 

In the adjoining bathroom, you tug your collar down and cautiously peel the rag from your neck. Indeed, it has already started closing. The mess isn’t too bad; she cleaned up after herself pretty nicely. 

A small amount of blood continues to ooze up after you’ve removed the pressure, so you press back down. You will have to ask for gauze along with bigger shoes, later. 

With only one serviceable hand, you set out to shed yourself of your clothes, not wanting to sleep in them. You leave them folded on her bathroom counter. 

When you come out, in just your undergarments, you find a platter of food on the bedside table. She must have sent someone to get you something. If you want to delude yourself, you will take it as an apology for being an asshole. 

There’s a steak, sliced up for you, and a mix of cherry tomatoes and zucchini on the side. Next to the plate are multiple jugs of water and an empty cup. You finish it all. 

Next, you go back to the bathroom to clean yourself up for the night and to check the bite one more time. It’s stopped bleeding, so you toss the handkerchief aside. 

The moment your head hits the pillow, you’re out. 

Sometime in the morning, Carmilla drifts in and climbs onto the bed, taking her spot on the other side. She smells clean and brings with her a whoosh of fresh air when she lifts the sheets.

It feels like a dream. Drowsily, you turn and reach out, and for whatever reason, she lets you touch her. Your fingers graze the side of her arm fleetingly. Your eyes are blurry from sleep, and you blink up at her until you can see her light eyes. 

“You could be kinder,” you murmur. 

She is impassive. “I don’t want to be.”

“All right,” you humph and wriggle closer. “Shit, I think I’ve lost my mind because I kind of like it when you’re a bitch anyway.”

At that, she snorts but doesn’t disagree, so you laugh, too. 

She pulls herself up, leaning on an elbow, and cups the back of your head. She examines your neck, and your eyes flutter shut, still sleepy. 

After a beat, she leans in, her hair tickling against your skin, and licks a stripe up your neck, over the bite. A kindness. It’s not meant to be sexual; regardless, you make a needy sound at the wet drag of her tongue, suddenly very awake. 

She stops, hovering in the space below the hook of your jaw. “You really can’t stand not being fucked for more than two days, can you?”

It’s said not maliciously, for once, but something akin to wonderment. You feel heat gather in your crotch, a sudden gush of wetness forcing you to readjust yourself.

Blanket slipping off her, she sits fully up and sighs. This time, it is cruel: “How pathetic. My needy little bitch in heat.”

You exhale loudly, clenching and unclenching your fists.

As is now the pattern, she seeks her orgasm first before yours. Smoothly, she pushes you flat and hikes a leg over you, straddling your stomach.

She’s wearing a chemise, decorated with needle-lace, and nothing else. You can feel her wetness wiping across your skin, copious amounts of it. It’s a bit of an ego-booster, honestly. Though, you’re careful not to be swept up by your own bravado. 

She smirks down at you, teeth and all, and if she were human, her legs would have your handprints bruised into them. 

In a swift move, she’s scooting up and mounting your face. In the second before your eyes close, before she lowers herself into your mouth, you see exactly how wet she is. 

Your mouth is open already, tongue sliding between her folds, when she settles down. 

You lap at her. She drips down your chin and a bit on your nose when you bump it against her by accident. 

Really, you hadn’t meant for the situation to go this way. Not that you’re complaining.

Your hands hang onto her thighs, near their apex, and you feel the ripple of muscle underneath your palms. You imagine the power she has. Perhaps, you are not the only one showing restraint.

She’s vocal, alternating between cursing and moaning, and calling you casually dehumanising things that shouldn’t make you as horny as they do. In response, you moan against her, sucking her into your mouth and licking at her until she bucks into you.

Your tongue dips into her, flicking in deeply and briefly. You drag more wetness up her slit and back down a few more times. Each time, she clenches around your tongue, and she makes a soft exhalation of a sound. You notice she’s louder when you’re elsewhere. 

You’ve gathered by now that she doesn’t like penetration and this is just further proof, so you move back to her clit. She clamps down around your ears. Unable to do much of anything, you groan against the engulfing weight of her, sending vibrations into the wet folds of her flesh, into her clit. She cries out.

The angle must be just right. Shamelessly, she buries her hands in your hair, holding you still, and rides your face until she comes into your mouth. 

As she’s stooped over you, curling around your head, you lick around her, at her thighs. The trimmed patch of her pubic hair tickles against your nose when you readjust.

You figure this is quid pro quo: she gets a taste of you, you get a taste of her, and what a taste it is. 

Eventually, she lets up and does a tucked up roll off of you, somehow still looking graceful. She extends, stretching like a pleased cat, and then rolls right back on top of you. The soft press of her body aligns with yours, and you don’t even have the time to appreciate that before she’s kissing you, stealing a taste of herself from your open mouth. 

Your body comes ablaze with sensation, hyperaware of every point of contact you have with her. Her hands take up their place on your face, directing the kiss at her discretion. Yours reach for her back, curling around the silky fabric of her chemise. 

Her thigh presses into your sopping panties, bearing down for friction—

Knocking. 

In a flash, she tears off you, and you suffer from whiplash. 

She wrenches the door open, hem barely tugged down to cover herself, and scowls. You wipe your face off on her sheets.

“What?”

“Now, don’t be like that,” comes a voice, smooth and cocky—Lenore. 

Torpidly, torturously wet, you move onto your elbows and look to the door. Carmilla mutters something under her breath, pinching at the space between her eyebrows. “ _Lenore_.”

“Carmilla,” Lenore says back, almost sing-song. When Carmilla continues to look unimpressed, she huffs. “Look, Hector’s not putting out, and a lady has needs.”

Left hanging, your suffering brain races to process the implications of that sentence. 

“What do you want _me_ to do about it?” She does not look at you. 

“Oh, please, Carmilla,” Lenore says, and you can imagine the roll of her eyes. “Don’t get territorial.”

Carmilla narrows her eyes and opens her mouth to rip Lenore a new one except Lenore says something, too quickly and quietly for you to hear. Not that you’re trying very hard to eavesdrop, just trying not to die of frustration. 

That is, until Carmilla makes a sound of intrigue and, your own curiosity piqued, you glance over your heaving chest to meet her eye. You are well aware of how you must look, spread out for her as you are: wet, wanton, and impatient. 

“I suppose we could find a hole for you to fuck,” she says to Lenore, but she’s eying you, sucking her lip into her mouth. There’s a questioning lilt to her voice. 

You answer it with a keening sound, head bouncing back onto the mattress. You stare at the ceiling and give her a thumbs up.

“Fine,” Carmilla says with a mischievous quirk to her lips. She steps aside, giving Lenore a little bit of leeway to slip in. The lock clicks into place behind her. 

Lenore immediately turns to the bed and grins at you like a shark. “Hello.”

“Uh—hi,” you say, prone and half-naked. After a pregnant pause, you reach blindly for the sheets, covering yourself up just as Carmilla steps up to Lenore and murmurs into her ear. 

If she doesn’t want you to hear, you know any attempts to eavesdrop would be futile. Instead, you use your last reserves of strength on sitting up and trying to tamp down your arousal.

As they speak, you give it some thought. Lenore’s very presence unsettles you. She puts on a pretty, wholesome look to distract you from what’s really underneath, from what she’s really capable of. 

And you begin to think about what that is, what she is capable of, and compare that to Carmilla and what attracts you to Carmilla. 

Carmilla, at least, has not shied away from showing you quite how cruel she can be. Lenore, well, you really only have Hector’s accounts to go off of. It’s hard to find a distinction between them, other than that. 

Both can provide you with a sense of purpose, can provide direction, _release_. 

Definitely, you’re wary of Lenore and her underhandedness. Still, you don’t have the moral high ground, condemning her when you’re very enthusiastically being fucked by Carmilla every chance you get. 

Also, Lenore _is_ quite pretty. Inadvertently, you start to imagine the sorts of things Lenore could—would do to you in bed.

There’s something incredibly terrifying and shameful about how at-home you feel being used as you are. At the same time, there is something exhilarating and undeniably _erotic_ about it.

The burning need that Carmilla had left unattended becomes almost painful, and you slip onto your stomach with a shaky inhale, wrapped up in the blankets and debating whether or not it’s worth the embarrassment to grind down. You’re wet enough again to take Carmilla’s ridiculous dildo in one fell swoop, probably.

“Please, god, hurry up,” you mumble into the mattress, so quietly you’re sure even a vampire can’t hear. Except…

You don’t need to look at them to know that they’re looking at you. 

For a few suspicious seconds, you hear nothing. You’re just about to check on them when the bed shifts and you feel arms wrap around your middle, hefting you up easily. Your yelp quickly turns into a helpless gasp when Carmilla drags her tongue down your neck, kissing at your shoulder.

She shifts you about easily, finding a comfortable spot with her legs framing your either side, your arse in her lap. 

“What’s—” you fumble over your words, losing them in a primal little sound when she slides a hand from around you to cup you over your panties. You can feel more than hear Carmilla’s hum of acknowledgement, pressed against you as she is. 

“Is there something you need from us?” Carmilla asks, voice light with mirth. 

“Please, can you just—” Mercifully, she applies light pressure. “ _Please_. Let me come.”

When you try to grind into her, she simply pulls back. 

Her arrogance is almost palpable, and you can’t take it anymore. 

“Please, fuck, _ah_ …” She gives you a little questioning hum, rubbing a circle into your clit, and you grit your teeth. “ _Fuck me_. Fuck me, Carmilla, please. Or—or Lenore.”

Into your skin, she hisses, “You really have no sense of loyalty, do you?”

As if to punish you, she presses more firmly and slips her hand around your neck, squeezing. The pain of it sharpens the fuzzy edges of your pleasure. You feel constricted in the best way possible, threatening to burst at the seams. 

Really, you think you might just be a brat more often if this is what it gets you.

Airflow still restricted, you go even more lightheaded. You’re on the precipice of passing out when she lets go and rubs into your clit with the heel of her palm. Like that, your release is torn out of you. You tremble through your orgasm, sucking air in through your gasping mouth. 

The whole way through, she massages a hand against your cunt and lays kisses along the curve of your shoulder. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” you babble in a rasp. 

That’s when Lenore makes herself known. “She talks way too much.”

Carmilla shrugs, appearing in your peripheral vision as an ethereal haze. “Shut her up, then.” You whine and rut into her hand. Feigning disgust, she pulls away completely. You’re still limp, so you flop onto your back. “Seriously, no loyalty at all.”

“Don’t be so offended, Carmilla, it isn’t so easy to change one’s nature.” You feel Lenore climb onto the bed. “Whores will be whores.”

You huff a little and open your eyes to see her leering at you through your splayed legs. Quickly, you straighten out, shying away. Then, you notice what’s strapped over her crotch.

You regret it the moment your sticky thighs meet; you’re still sensitive and need flares bright within you once again. Hers is like Carmilla’s, only shorter and just barely thicker. 

Accidentally, you look up at Carmilla, feeling more out of your element than you have in a while—which is really saying something, considering your circumstance. Oddly enough, the sight of her comforts you. Grounds you. She rolls her eyes, waving a hand to acquiesce, and moves off the bed. And maybe it wasn’t an accident at all.

Lenore shuffles closer to you, and you can’t help but think she looks kind of ridiculous: hair tied up by a feminine bow, a little flushed already, touch almost delicate running along your arm, and, somewhat jarring, the fake purple cock jutting proudly from her centre. 

Uselessly, you work your jaw. What can you even say?

She pays you no mind. Her soft hands slip around the back of your hand, and pulls you to her shaft, wraps your fingers around it. On instinct, you grip on, and your breath stutters when you realise your fingers can’t meet around the thick of it. 

Lenore hums happily, and you have to roll a bit and crawl after her when she settles primly against the pillows. 

Somehow, you end up on your stomach and bracketed by her knees.

With a content sigh, she rakes her fingers through your hair and gets a good hold of you before she pulls you down. Though you’ve done it before, this still makes you burn with embarrassment. 

The casual way the two use you, claim you, is one thing. The way you bend to their will without complaint or question, well, that’s a little harder to reconcile with the image you once held of yourself. Certainly, however, you are getting something out of this. The cost is your pride, and you pay the price wilfully.

You lick your lips, the round head of it, and you bear down. Distantly, you feel the bed dip and rise again; Carmilla, always lurking somewhere in the depths of your mind these days, comes to the forefront. Is she watching? Does she mind it, seeing you this way? Does she get off on it?

Despite knowing Lenore won’t get much out of it, you cock your head to one side and drag your mouth slowly down the underside of her, leaving open-mouthed kisses until you physically cannot go any lower. 

She doesn’t seem to mind if the tightening of her hands in your hair is any indication. 

You return to the fake divot at the top of her dick, and you pass your tongue over it once, twice, before taking her halfway into your mouth. 

Behind you, you hear a rough chuckle and then another hand slips over your hair, twisting around the shorter ends at the nape of your neck. “It’s a shame you shed your dignity so fast. I was really enjoying myself, fucking it out of you.”

You whimper just as Lenore exhales sharply and plies your mouth wider, pushing you down. Unprepared, you choke a little, but to your surprise, she notices and lets up. You don’t delude yourself into thinking it’s for your benefit—if you’re ready for it, you can take her properly down your throat, which is clearly what she wants.

You fist the sheets by her waist and, bit-by-bit, you relax your body. You spend a few moments bobbing your head, cheeks hollowed out, and on her next upward thrust, you let her force herself all the way in. 

She groans at the pressure on her clit and pulls out to do it again. 

A cold hand slides from your hair to your hip to your abdomen, and another comes to rest on your arse. Carmilla, _finally_. The noise you make, in surprise or relief or excitement, you don’t know, is sent directly to Lenore’s core. 

You lift your ass up, onto your knees and pressing your face into Lenore’s lap, and they both make a pleased sound. Your pussy clenches and you whine.

Lenore’s firm hold on you guides you into a slower pace and, as always, you are obliging. 

The hand on your arse disappears—and it comes back down in a swift strike. You almost spear yourself onto Lenore, gasping around her shaft. Your head feels like it might burst from how much you need her, Carmilla.

Carmilla spanks you again. “She’s presenting herself for me,” she says; you think it might be disbelief tinging her voice. You are suitably mortified. “The bitch wants to be fucked and bred.”

Ignoring your frankly indecipherable garbling, Lenore finds the energy to giggle in between her gasps. “Even for you that would be a feat, but I’m sure if you really put your heart into it...”

Carmilla snorts. “Having a few holes to fuck at your disposal has done wonders for your ego; now you think you’re funny.”

“You’re hardly in any position to talk. I’d be happy to take your little _pet_ off your hands while you deflate your head.” Lenore makes a thoughtful sound and pointedly pumps her hips into you. “Well, actually, _she’s_ hardly in any position to talk.”

As if to prove her point, you whimper around her cock, swallowing around her. She must feel the subtle movement because she moans and drops her head back. 

Not one to be forgotten, Carmilla grabs handfuls of your arse, squeezes, and spreads you apart. Your neck snaps up, yanking off of Lenore when something bumps into your clit, and a rubbery thickness drags between your drenched folds. 

Pathetically, you make a sobbing sound and attempt to grind on Carmilla’s bobbing length. Her hands do not relent, and you can only rub once before you can’t move any more. 

It’s worse; you’ve been given a taste, and you need _more_ , yet you’ve been so steadily denied. Supernatural strength, it seems, is a double-edged sword.

“Please,” you say, a sad little croak of a sound. 

“How uninspiring.” Carmilla stays torturously still. You hear her inhale, somehow sensing her smile, and she lets go. Like a released bowstring, you quiver, sagging lower onto the friction.

Right under your nose, Lenore starts to jerk herself off. With every upwards jerk of her hips into her own fist, the head brushes against your swollen lips and, almost automatically, you let her in again. 

Carmilla repositions herself at your entrance and makes a grunting sound when she’s met with your slick resistance. 

You hardly have time to react to her intrusion before Lenore’s insistent hand sets a furious pace for you. Through the slits of your eyes, you see her other hand cupping her own breast, head thrown back for a long groan. 

Running her warmed-up hands over the sore flesh of your backside, Carmilla hilts herself and swiftly begins pounding into you. Your eyes squeeze shut. 

By now, the sense you get—that you’ve been consumed entirely into a world of hot, wet sensations—is a familiar one. All you know at this moment is pleasure: providing and receiving, providing _by_ receiving, and vice versa. 

You feel useful—no, you think; there is no room for modesty here— _used_ in the best ways possible: wholly and selfishly. 

On one end, Lenore sets a frenzied pace for your mouth. On the other, Carmilla has you lurching forwards with every deliberate thrust, consistent in timing and depth. As a result, the erratic bobbing of your head is interrupted every few moments by Carmilla’s rhythm, driving Lenore’s thick head down your throat.

It doesn’t take long after that for Lenore to come with a shout. You realise you’re too wrecked to handle it digging into the back of your mouth, so, blindly, you snatch at the thickest part of her and, into your fist, she grinds her way through her orgasm.

This frees up your mouth, and you make good use of it with the sounds you set free. Every breath you release is a heave in between your incoherent moaning, between the carnal slapping of skin against skin, between Lenore and Carmilla’s own filthy words.

Lenore coos down at the sight before her and combs her sharp nails through your hair. She’s kind of sweet about it, actually, and you’re almost confused at the contradictions within herself, and in the sensations you’re subject to—almost, but not quite. Your brain is pretty much mush at this point, you can hardly muster any emotion other than bliss right now.

She looks sated and, all of a sudden, Carmilla cracks her palm against your smarting ass, and you’re sated too, coming yourself into a puddle. 

Again, Carmilla keeps herself plunged deep inside you throughout your orgasm. 

Your pleasure, however, is secondary to hers. You haven’t forgotten. She thrusts into you even while you’re limp against Lenore’s stomach, gathering the strength to jerk yourself into her crotch, to get this over with faster. 

It works. A moment later, she spits out a dirty sounding word in another language and grinds against your sore backside. The head of her cock nestles into the deepest parts of you. You can do nothing but twitch and groan and gasp, letting a little weasel of an orgasm writhe out of you.

The whole time, Lenore enjoys the show. 

As Carmilla slips out, the shaft dragging along your walls in a way that borders on too much, you become painfully aware of Lenore’s lazy thrusts against your chest. Her appetite has returned, it seems.

You think you might pass out midway if Lenore chooses to indulge. Even so, when Carmilla kneads your arse and sits back on her heels, and asks, “More?” you find yourself nodding desperately. 

“Yes.”

Lenore shares a look with Carmilla over your quaking shoulders, her hips stilling. She cups your cheek. “Can you handle it?”

Probably not but then again, there’s something profoundly fulfilling about stretching past a limit or two to grasp at the tail of pleasure, to _earn_ your reward. You shrug and rasp, “It’s okay.”

With an out of character tenderness, Carmilla picks you up and lays you on your back where Lenore had once been. Lenore, you see, has rolled off the bed and is reaching for a bottle on the nightstand. 

Eyes wide, you watch her pop it open and spurt the gel-like liquid along the proud member standing from her hips. She’s liberal with it.

Above you, Carmilla combs the hair from your sticky forehead and leans down for an open-mouthed kiss. Though your lips tingle from the rough treatment they had just been subject to, you happily return the kiss. 

Her hands trail over your sternum and, partway through their ministrations, passes over your nipples. You gasp, going rigid where you had been coaxed into softness in the past few moments. You feel the length of her teeth, the point of them, when she smirks against your mouth.

“You’ll need to relax for this, pet,” she murmurs, eyes half-lidded, drinking in the sight of you squirming underneath her. “If you don’t, it might hurt more than it pleases.”

Far from having all your wits about you, you think that, maybe, they wouldn’t continue if you didn’t take to what you think they are planning to do to you. Or perhaps they would push you, _make_ you take to it. Either way, you would not say no. 

This is an exercise in trust in the most convoluted way. You trust them as far as prey could trust its predator not to devour them. Thus far, the not-devouring, the power in that, has made you feel delirious. 

You trust them, now, to keep your wellbeing, your wants, and your needs in mind. So, you twine your arms around her neck and press your sweaty face against hers, nodding.

Your eyes drift shut as Carmilla coaxes you up into her lap, pliant when she kisses you. Your arms hang limply at her shoulder blades. 

A pair of slippery hands touch your shoulders, rubbing into where you’re tense, and you gasp and groan into Carmilla’s mouth as Lenore settles in behind you. 

You’re not sure how long you stay there, bathing in their gentle attentions, but by the time Lenore’s moulding her body into your back, you’re relaxed and kissing Carmilla back with gusto. Lenore lays a soft kiss to the nape of your neck and, in a contradictory move, reaches around to twist a nipple.

Pressed between them, they laugh at your yelp, and you can’t help the laugh of your own that bubbles from your chest. It chokes up and dies in your throat, however, as a moment later, Carmilla skirts over your raw ass cheek and aligns the tip of Lenore’s cock with your sphincter. 

Instinctively, you stiffen up. Carmilla chuckles again, and lets go, the dick slipping away to knock against the base of your spine instead. It leaves behind a leaking trail of lube.

Carmilla sighs against your ear. “Not yet. Don’t get worked up over nothing.”

Lenore presses her cheek against a shoulder blade and purrs. It has the desired effect, soothing you into loosening up. Instead of praise, she treats you to a trail of kisses up to the side of your neck. 

You rest your head in the crook of Carmilla’s shoulder, breathing down. She hums against you, sinking a hand in your hair, stroking, and slipping the other hand lower to press into your arse. 

It’s slippery from the lube she’d wiped there, and she spreads it around you as she trails the tip of her finger around the ring of muscle. Your breath quickens, and Carmilla shushes you. 

Achingly slowly, she pushes into her first knuckle. You groan, long and low; you can’t find the words to express how you feel.

She sighs through her nose and makes a throaty sound that might be approval.

“Describe it,” Lenore demands into your skin, her arms loose around you, hands clasped at your stomach.

“Hot,” Carmilla says, sounding strangled which you think is quite funny considering the fact that you’re the one taking her up the ass. She digs the finger further in and she tries to wedge in a second. “Tight,” she hisses with a groan. 

“A shame Dracula and his infinite wisdom couldn’t come up with a toy that would let me feel your pet wrapped tight around me,” Lenore mutters.

Carmilla makes a warning sound and abruptly scissors her fingers inside you. You pant against her, whimpering. “Must you mention that prick _now_ ? Are you not sufficiently entertained?”

Lenore scoffs. “You’re claiming her third hole while I’m waiting around, just one under my belt.”

“Oh? Why, how do you piss, shit, and come from just one hole under your belt?” Carmilla must be leering. Roughly, she thrusts both her fingers fully in, and you tighten your hold on her.

“Could you guys save this for another time?” you rasp, straining.

“The mouth on this one,” Lenore scoffs.

Carmilla curls her fingers inside of you, nails introducing you to pinpricks of pain. “Should we deny you, then? Take turns fucking your mouth to remind you what it’s for?” she hisses. You think you’d die if they did that. 

Before you can reply, she yanks her fingers out of you, and you’re left heartbreakingly empty. Clenching around nothing, you notice how wet you are in Carmilla’s lap, your thighs a warm, sticky mess. 

Again, she reaches out to position Lenore and leaves the head where it catches on the puckered hole of your ass.

“I…” you start, only to putter out, still unable to verbalise what you need. 

Lenore moves closer and pinches your nipples, licking up the left side of your neck while Carmilla lays claim to your right. Together, you form a pile of limbs, and you start to lose track of whose arms are whose.

Carmilla cants her hips to rub her strap against your sensitive folds. It’s not what you want—it’s not _enough_ , and the force of your desire almost hurts. 

“I need—” You break the skin of your bottom lip, biting into it the way you are, when Lenore’s bulbous tip dips into you. 

“We know what you need,” Lenore says, softly, lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

Carmilla isn’t so kind. “Whores are so easy to please,” she says, almost conversationally. She pushes until you topple Lenore onto her back. Your knees bracketing her, still connected by where you’re impaled on her. “Some food to eat, water to drink, and anything that’ll work as a cock to keep yourselves stuffed full.”

With those last two words, for emphasis, she plants her hands on your hips and pushes you further down onto Lenore. 

She’s splitting you open. 

The overwhelming fullness, the feeling of being whole, distracts you from where the friction is too much.

You taste copper in your mouth, having bitten through. 

It’s overwhelming and filthy, the way you’re taking Lenore. You think you might rupture an artery somewhere and end up really giving them something to devour. 

You collapse into Lenore’s front.

Underneath you, Lenore moans and whispers barely intelligible encouragements. Her fingers flex around your breasts, stiffened nipples squeezed between them. 

Not wanting to fall and take it all in one go, you hold yourself up until your thighs are aching from exertion. After a beat, you try to lower yourself, desperate to take it all. Only you can’t. Carmilla’s bruising hold keeps you still.

You cover Carmilla’s hands with yours, over the bump where your hipbones protrude from your body, and you look helplessly to her. 

She smiles, devilishly, and looms over you. “What?”

“I need—I need more,” you get out, grit teeth and all. Probably, there is a vein sticking out at your temple.

Carmilla raises an eyebrow. 

“I—” She _pushes_ , and you lurch into Lenore’s lap with a scream. 

Your nails dig into Carmilla’s forearms, eyes shut. You feel every bit of Lenore in the depths of you, your insides fastened tight around her girth. She arches a little, making sure her cock is snug inside of you.

Absently, you feel Carmilla shrug your grip off to rearrange your legs into a more comfortable position. Then, on her knees, she closes the scant gap between your bodies. 

She’s lean and pale, and towers over you, her length resting in a small puddle of sweat on your pelvis. 

She covers your body with ease, supporting herself with a hand on your chest. It’s oddly intimate, knowing she can feel your heartbeat underneath her fingers. You don’t have the time or brains to appreciate it, though.

The whole time, you’re letting a stream of mangled, breathy sounds fall out of your mouth. Lenore is just so thick. So warm from your own body heat, so solid straining under you. 

Carmilla uses her cock to wipe your arousal off your thighs and teases at your hole, tracing the outer edges and then pushing up to grate against your clit. 

Dazed, you meet her eye. She watches your face, drinking in your needy expression and the desperate sounds you’re making. 

She makes another pass over your entrance, and it clenches around nothing. You wail, and you open your mouth to beg, but she shakes her head with a harsh shushing sound. 

“Save your strength,” she says, amused. “I think Lenore would like a taste of you, hm?”

In case her intentions flew over your head, she’s kind enough to bare her teeth and let go of her dick to trail a hand down the line of your neck. The prospect makes you dizzy, being so impossibly used. You bear down on Lenore, and she moans. You don’t know if it’s because she’s been granted permission to feed from you or the weight on her clit, or both. 

Your arms wind around Carmilla’s back, holding her to your front, hoping that she might get the hint. You feel the stiff points of your nipples brushing against your front. 

“Filthy,” she whispers to you. “I knew you got off on it. The biting.”

You have half a mind to let go of her and deal with it yourself, but she’s always had pretty good timing, and she slides all the way into you with one fluid motion before you can get a word out. She’s rough enough to knock your head back into Lenore’s shoulder. 

You both gasp. She bucks into you again, and again, and you really are filthy. A week ago, you didn’t even know you were capable of making half the sounds you are currently rasping and groaning and shouting out. 

Unsatisfied with just being buried inside you, Lenore takes advantage of her inhuman strength to lift you both up into a sitting position. She takes the time to situate herself comfortably, kneeling while hilted in your ass, and it would really be more manageable if Carmilla stopped fucking you through it. 

Carmilla uses _her_ inhuman strength to will herself to pause her deep, long thrusts into you. She almost deflates against you, hips twitching to plough into you. 

The head eventually slips out of you, sticking to the inside of your thigh.

A beat later, she hikes your legs onto her arms, into the crook of her elbows, and lifts you up. Lenore works with her to take some of your weight, and together they reposition themselves. 

You mumble some confused noises, muscles fluttering around nothing. Or, for your other set of muscles, bearing down around Lenore’s comforting girth. 

You paw at Carmilla’s back until she realigns herself at your cunt.

Carmilla sucks at your neck, where you’re still tender from yesterday, and she smiles. “Better hang on, pet.” Her jaw widens, and you begin to feel like you really are wholly in the jaws of your predators. “Ready?”

You have no idea if she’s even talking to you, but you reckon you can play your responding grunt of assent as a natural response to the ocean of sensations she’s drowning you in. 

Lenore guides your head onto her shoulder, exposing your neck to them both. She pushes her head into the soft give of your throat with a delighted sound. 

Carmilla’s hips jolt forward, and she bottoms out, and Lenore sinks her teeth into you. It should hurt more than it pleases, what with your oversensitive nerves and also the vampire latching onto you by the teeth. And it does, but the pain of the bite fades, and the pleasure surges forward to take its place, with tenfold the force it had before.

You’re gasping for breath when Carmilla breaks skin.

Your eyes roll into the back of your head, wave after wave of pleasure cresting under the storm of pain. The orgasm is toe-curling, soul-sucking, war-ending. 

Lenore has started moving, too, prying you open. She picks up on Carmilla’s slow pace, careful not to upset the teeth poking into your vein. 

When Carmilla ekes herself out, Lenore’s stuffing herself in, and vice versa.

Sometimes, one of them will slip, and they’ll thrust up at the same time, the outlines of their cocks dragging along each other inside of you. You feel unbearably full. 

On the third consecutive time it happens, still barely off the heels of your other orgasm, you crash again into a solid wall of ecstasy. It’s shattering; it’s simply too much for you to handle at once. Your nerve endings are on fire. 

You can’t do anything but hang on. So, your eyes slam shut, your hands ball into fists, and you tighten around the shafts inside of you. Feel the wet slide of Carmilla pulling out, rubbing along Lenore’s searing rod as she eases in. 

And you’re coming again. It’s a small earthquake of a climax, like the rest.

Still, they fuck you and drink from you. You’re unsure if those aftershocks you’re experiencing are actually mini orgasms. 

You wonder when you’ll run out of body fluids. 

By the time your brain catches up to you, they’ve stopped rutting against you. Lenore’s mouth is slack against your bleeding throat, lips forming words but not producing any sounds as she comes against your ass. 

You’re limp as you take it, wrapped around her thickness as you are.

Carmilla is put together enough to start licking at her bite, but not enough to remember to pull out, or at least unwilling to, until you make a, “ _guh_ ,” sound. She falls out of you, then, and your arms slip off her shoulders, too weak to stay looped together. 

This time the rawness she leaves behind just hurts. You grimace and then grimace harder when the wound Lenore has yet to close complains at the movement. 

It takes Carmilla huffing her name for her to pass her tongue over your ruptured skin. As she laps at your wound, she tugs gently out of you. You gape in her absence. 

You feel an odd mix of disappointment and relief at being so starkly empty, and then only all-consuming exhaustion. 

This time, Carmilla makes sure the bites are sufficiently healed before releasing you. Like before, she half-heartedly manoeuvres you onto your side of the bed—and isn’t it nice to have a side of the bed? 

You drag the blankets up and sink into her bed. A little bit away, Carmilla and Lenore clean themselves off. Then, Carmilla exchanges a few words with Lenore in low tones, sees her off, and slips back in next to you.

You watch her turn to her side through a blurry half-lidded gaze. “Thank you,” you say for so many reasons. 

With a murmur of your name, Carmilla looks at you in the dark and reaches a hand out to touch your forehead. She rolls her eyes, then, and lies onto her back with her eyes closed. “Go to sleep.”

Smiling and satisfied, you do.

* * *

It’s a week of resting and gorging yourself on meals before you can walk without either an ache between your legs or feeling like you’ll faint from just being upright. 

Another week to hammer out some sort of routine at the castle and to get used to it—no more spontaneous threesomes for you. You think you might die if you tried to make it a weekly occurrence.

Hector, you have only seen the once since you first met, and only in passing. He frowns, like he’s passing a kidney stone, but doesn’t say anything to you, so you leave him alone. 

Carmilla has asked to see you tonight. Not specifically to feed or to fuck, though you’re sure at least one of those things will happen. Until then, you have hours to kill.

You decide that you’ll venture out the castle for the first time. The guards have gotten used to your wandering around, and they don’t comment when you ask them to prepare a horse for you.

You’re not the best at riding, but you don’t intend on going far. Besides, Carmilla could always come to get you if you’re stranded. Not that she’d be happy about it. Though, there’s something to be said about her method of punishment.

Outside, the sun warms your skin, even though the Styrian climate is harsh and biting. 

Harsh and biting is the way you like it, anyway.

Your horse trots down the mountain without fanfare and you’re pleased the guards didn’t intentionally sabotage you by giving you a rowdier one. You hope they’ll come around to you soon. You’d go stir-crazy with only Carmilla for conversation.

The lake, when you get there, sparkles under the sunlight. It’s beautiful, and you have the time to admire it, now that you’re not living off the land. 

You find a tree to tie your horse to. In your pack, you fish out a book, and you settle down under the sun to read.

For hours, you sit there. All the way till the sun touches the very tip of the castle. 

Then, you put your book back, untie your horse, and saddle up. You cast the lake one last look over your shoulder. Your reflection retreating to the shore as you do. It shines a brilliant reddish-orange under the glare of the sunset.

You look up at the peak of the mountain before you and tighten your hold on the reins. With a smile, you set off back home in the dusk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah yes while editing this i remembered that units of measurement were too hard to figure out
> 
> thanks for reading, open to constructive feedback or like if u spot any glaring typos:) otherwise im just gonna pretend i never posted this out of shame


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